thicker than forget
by aRegularJo
Summary: Four years after leaving New York and ACN, Maggie returns at a moment when everyone's lives are in flux. DonxSloan, WillxMac, eventually JimxMaggie. UPDATE: A midnight conversation with Mrs. Lansing in the kitchen gets Don thinking.
1. Prologue -- Maggie

Time for the longer piece! This picks up a few years in the future (in my mind it's 2018 but that's just my head-canon, which is being explored in a far fluffier manner in "Hearts Are Strong, Hearts Are Kind"; everything from season 2 happens), after Maggie left ACN under less-than-ideal circumstances and the rest of the gang moved forward with their lives. While this chapter is largely about Maggie, it's fully an ensemble piece that will account for every major character — especially Don, Sloan, Will, and Mac. And Jim, because you can't do a Maggie story without Jim.

The title comes from an ee cummings poem, transcribed at the bottom. I obviously don't own the poem or the characters.

_You leave home, you move on, you do the best you can - Miranda Lambert, The House That Built Me_

* * *

_Prologue_

_April 3_

Nearly ten years after she first moved to New York, Maggie still firmly believes there is magic in the city's springtime. The city's hustle seems lighter and happier: Kids wearing t-shirts dance home from school; coffee dates unfurl on patios; nannies and runners bask in the good weather. It's been almost four years since she left her first big city; while Atlanta is fun and she's made friends and having no winter is great, there's something perpetually romantic about New York that isn't present in Atlanta. It's good to be back, even if it's for work and for two days.

"You know, if I didn't know how busy you were, I might think you were avoiding me and I would get offended."

Maggie looks up at the shadow that crossed her table. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were stalking me," she replies with a smirk. "Hi, Don."

Her ex-boyfriend reaches down to hug her. "How's it going, Maggie?" He grabs a chair from the next table, and swings it around so he can rest his arms on the back while still facing her.

"Well," she says, closing her book. "How are you?"

"I'm great. I've emailed you a few times. I've even called."

"As you said, I've been busy. But it looks like you followed me to this cafe. How did you find me, exactly?"

"I called your office, and they said you'd stepped out to lunch. I figured there were exactly three restaurants by CNN to try. This was the second one I got to."

"How very entrepreneurial of you," she smiles. "Though usually you're better at reading signs. And signs said I didn't want to talk to you."

"Too bad I'm such a dogged journalist," he grins. "No, seriously. I want to know. How's Atlanta? I haven't talked to you in forever. You look good. The hair?" he motions under his chin, signaling, _short_. "It's good."

"Thanks. And … yeah. Atlanta's great. Time flies, you know? I've been traveling a lot, there's good people, so much fun. Work keeps me busy. What about you? You're at NBC now, right? And Sloan? She's at Bloomberg still?" She runs a hand through her chin-length, honey-brown bob. He looks good — his hair is close-cropped but product-free and curly, and he's wearing jeans and a light, checked button-down under a dark blue sweater and gray blazer. It's very J. Crew — a far cry from his days of slept-in flannel shirts.

"Yes and yes. She's great. She's managing editor for three hours a day and loves it," he grins. "You've been avoiding me," he smiles and taps his knuckles on the table.

Caught off-guard, she says, "I have not!"

He gives her a look that clearly says she is transparent, and she guiltily says, "Well, you know, work, and life, and suddenly, bam! It's been, what, four years?"

"Almost," he says. "Anyways. I wanted to invite you to dinner."

"Dinner?"

"Yes. Our place. 7:30 tonight. MacKenzie and Will are coming, so you can't say no."

"I mean, yes, I want to see you, this isn't _personal_, but I have plans tonight," she lies, her stomach sinking, because Don absolutely can tell lying vs. not-lying.

"Bullshit," he says, his voice affable. "Come on. We want to catch up. We miss you around here, Mags."

She caves. "7:30?"

"Yeah. I may be late, but Sloan's home by 5:30. We're at 160 Riverside Drive, Apartment 14A. It's by …"

"I may have moved but I remember how to get to your place," she says wryly. "I'll see you then."

"Sounds great!" he says. "And don't worry — Sloan isn't cooking."

She smiles, wanly. An evening with her ex-coworkers is not exactly something that interests her, but she knows Don Keefer's tenacious side well. "I have to go," she says. "My lunch is over."

"Of course," he says. "We'll see you tonight."

At 7:30, a bottle of wine in hand, she rings the bell, nervously, at 160 Riverside Drive, Apartment 14A. It's a gorgeous co-op in a renovated pre-war building. It's slightly gothic, very West Side, a block from the Hudson and four from the park. There's a smaller neighborhood playground on the corner and a dog run, as well as the Soldiers and Sailors Monument, down the block. It's idyllic, in a Woody Allen-movie way.

She's braced herself for Sloan or possibly Don to answer the door, not Mac with a four-year-old boy looped in her arms. She stares for a second, jaw down. "Oh, Maggie," Mac exclaims, holding one arm wide to embrace her. "Come _in, _come _in. _It is _so good _to see you," she lets the hug linger. "You remember Max. Max, this is Maggie. You should say hi." She blinks, hard, when she sees him, then blinks several more times to keep an unexpected (but not unsurprising) surge of tears at bay. He is so _big_.

"Hi," Max says brightly. His hair is very, very dark chestnut, possibly even black. His curls, nose, and chin are all Don's, but he's got Sloan's greenish eyes and a mischievous smile. He's dressed in pants and a top from two different sets of pajamas. "Are you here to play? I have my trains out and I know how to share." She opens her mouth, but can't really speak.

"Maggie's here for dinner with me, your mommy, your daddy, and Will," Mac jumps in. "Maggie used to work with mommy and daddy and now she lives in _Atlanta_."

"Hi," she says, awkwardly, at last. "Nice to meet you, Max." She thinks she saw him last when he was nine months old, so 'meet' is perfectly appropriate.

"Why don't you go play with your trains, Max?" Mac smiles, and the kid runs off. "Remember to put them away when you are done!" She calls after him, then turns to Maggie. "I'm sorry. Don is running just a few minutes late, so Will is helping Sloan with the girls' bedtime and then they'll be out. It shouldn't take very long."

"Will is helping with bedtime?"

She nods, smiling. "He does the best funny voices."

Sloan comes down the stairs (it was _definitely_ a one-story apartment when they first moved in) and smiles broadly when she sees her. "Maggie!" she exclaims, coming to hug her. "So good to see you. You look great."

So do you," she says, and it's true. Sloan still talks crazy-fast and has that full-on stare, but she looks completely relaxed in her home. She's barefoot with wine-red toes, wearing a white Oxford shirt and calf-length black leggings. Her hair, longer and with more layers than the last time Maggie saw her in person, is parted and half pulled back in a clip. She wears very little makeup, and is just as unfairly willowy as she was when they were working together.

"Can I get you anything to drink? We have beer, red wine, white wine, water..."

"White wine would be great," she smiles, and Sloan heads toward the kitchen. Before she can get very far, though, the door clicks open, and Max streaks past them, yelling, "DADDY!" A dog — Smith, the black-and-white Portuguese water dog they got right after they got married, as a test-run for kids — follows him, toenails clicking, and it's all Maggie can do to refrain from rolling her eyes at the New York perfection of it all. It's Upper West Side apartment porn. She's briefly reminded of Rebecca Halliday and her preference for the UWS. She wonders if she lives in the building.

"Max!" Sloan exasperates, "Quiet voice, sweetheart, you're inside." He's way past them, though, so Sloan finishes her chiding as an aside to Mac, "And your sisters are trying to get to sleep, but why do you care if that happens?" They both laugh a little.

Don has picked his little boy up, though, and stuck his head under the spaceship PJ top, blowing a raspberry onto his stomach. Max laughs mirthfully, and Sloan says, as a head's up, "The girls aren't down yet." Quickly throwing them an 'oops' look, Don extracts his head and swings his son onto his hip.

"Sorry, babe," he says, and the two of them quickly kiss.

"It's fine," she says reassuringly. "Do you want to go say goodnight? Last I checked on them, there was a very involved retelling of 'Knuffle Bunny' still going on."

"That would be great," and he lets Max slide down his leg. He heads up to the girls' bedroom, Max returns to wherever his trains are, Smith follows Max, and Sloan says, "Let me get you that glass of wine," before disappearing into the kitchen. She quickly returns and says, somewhat awkwardly, "I'm sorry it's so crazy — the girls' bedtime is 7:30, which the earliest Don gets home, which is _also_ the edge of acceptability for dinner invitations these days."

"It's fine," Maggie says. "I'm sure it must be crazy all the time. How, um, how old are the girls now?" She wishes she could remember their names — she'd definitely gotten the birth announcement.

"Fifteen months. They're pretty independent. Emerson's sassy, definitely the one who likes digging in the dirt and climbing way too high on the jungle gym. Susannah is more of a girly-girl, but she's sneakier. Emerson tells you before she starts wreaking havoc," Sloan smiles. Names. Thank god.

"I can't imagine Don with teenaged daughters."

"Neither can he," Sloan laughs. "Anyways, how are you? We've missed you. How is Atlanta?"

Maggie looks around. "I'm great. It's great. How about you? Have you redecorated? It looks different."

"Since you've been here last? Yes, I think so. When was the last time you came over?"

Taking a swill of wine, she says, "Um, right before I moved. Probably Max's christening."

"Okay. Yeah, we actually purchased the unit above us when the building went condo and then combined the two so we had enough space. We were really lucky that the upstairs neighbor was happy to sell; otherwise we would have had to move when the girls were born. Renovating was a complete bitch, though. Here, I'll give you a tour."

Downstairs is the kitchen, living room, dining room, breakfast nook, laundry room, a _huge _library/media center, a family room complete with gym equipment, and a home office with five TVs. Most of the rooms have fantastic views of the Hudson and the bridge. An east-facing terrace snakes along next to the library and looks over the city — she can see the park peeking through the buildings. Upstairs are all the bedrooms, along with an extra one for when the girls get older and are separated, a playroom, and a guest suite. Her favorite part is Max's room, with 'Where the Wild Things Are' murals and a treehouse bed with a slide. They don't go into the girls' room, but she can hear Will reading animatedly.

The whole place is pretty open and modern, but with plenty of pre-war accents — subway tile in the sleek, dark-wood kitchen; built-in bookshelves everywhere; arched entryways; thick crown molding on the windowsills; clean parquet floors; gorgeous expansive windows. It's also pretty homey — there is child-made artwork on the fridge and taped on the walls in the office; there are dishes stacked in the kitchen sink and toys on the floor; books and personal art and family photos are everywhere. She notices a few from their spur-of-the-moment City Hall wedding six years ago. As they're returning to the kitchen, Don and Will slink down the stairs.

"They have trouble getting to sleep?" Sloan asks.

"Annie crashed two pages in. Emmy needed 'Don't Let Pigeon Drive the Bus,'" Will says. At the ridiculousness of that statement — the nicknames, the book titles, the mental picture of Will doing the 'funny voices' — Maggie lets out a quick bark of a laugh, which she quickly suppresses.

"Sorry. Just … Hi, Will," she smiles. "How are you?" It wasn't just a cursory greeting: Will had taken a leave of absence from _News Night_ a month ago for 'health reasons,' which she had quickly found out was a bad bout of pneumonia. She'd sent flowers and called Mac, but had just received a terse 'we're doing fine, will keep you posted darling!' in return.

"I'm well, thank you, Maggie," he smiles. "How's CNN treating you?"

"It's going well. I'm traveling a lot. I just went to California for the earthquake and South Korea for the Olympics," she says. Sloan disappears for a minute, and Don begins pulling out plates and cups, which MacKenzie starts carrying out to the terrace as Will asks Maggie about work. When Sloan returns, she pulls a few bags of Chinese food out of the fridge and informs her husband, quietly, that the 'Wild Thing' is watching a movie.

"Hopefully he'll just pass out," Don mutters back, running a hand along his wife's spine. Maggie watches them, with a pang for this life, this busy, full, expansive, fulfilling, life. Sloan smiles and reaches up to thumb his cheekbone before reaching up to the wine rack.

"Everyone ready?" she says, meting out three glasses of red and handing one each to Will and Mac. Don grabs a beer from the fridge and the monitor to the girls' room. They settle on the patio, Don and Sloan both positioning themselves so they can see into the library, which has windows that look directly onto the outdoor space. Craning her head, she can see Max, tucked up under a few blankets, nodding off to what looks like one of the _Despicable Me_ movies in the library. Smith is sprawled on top of him as well.

"Great babysitter there, Sabbith," Will remarks, and it's clearly a light dig.

"Bite me," Sloan replies, chomping down on an egg roll.

And just like that, they're talking and laughing like she never left New York. She learns about Sloan's show on Bloomberg; how Emerson and Susannah learned to walk; MacKenzie's attempt to take Max to the aquarium, which ended in a panic attack; and Will and MacKenzie's tiny one-witness wedding in Italy, as well as their massive blowout on a yacht once they got back to New York. She'd been invited, but had sent a blender instead. It had been less than a month after she'd left New York, and she couldn't bear the thought of returning.

About an hour after they sit down, Don and Sloan excuse themselves. Maggie watches them through the window into the library, sees Sloan carefully gather Max in her arms, Don helping her support his head, and then walk slowly out as Don cleans up and deals with the dog.

"They're a good team," Mac says fondly as she watches them exit. At first Maggie assumes the remark is cagily directed at her, but Mac continues, "You think we'll have that, Billy?"

He smiles a real smile. "Yeah. I think we will."

"Are you two pregnant?" she blurts out, startling them out of her reverie. Because while it's cute, that it took them over a decade to find each other, they're both on the older side now.

"No," Will says, quickly.

"But … we are adopting," Mac confirms, just as quickly. She bites her lip lightly, studying Maggie, trying to gauge her reaction.

"Wow," Maggie says, slightly stunned. She schools her face carefully. "That's great. Do you have photos?"

Mac quickly pulls out a cell phone and flicks to a photo, then spins it around. "That's Naureen. _Nora_. She's three. She's in an orphanage in Peshawar, but she'll be ours in about two months. We're hoping to have her by the Fourth." The little girl is skinny, with startlingly large eyes and a wide smile.

"I'm so excited for you!" Maggie says, and she does really mean it. "She can come in and do _News Night _and be a producer by the age of five, and cover the _Dora the Explorer _beat."

The two of them exchange a look and, emboldened by the wine, Maggie says, "What am I missing?"

"She might come in and be a producer, but it won't be of _News Night_."

She leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Are you not going back to _News Night_?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Will says. "Of course I am."

"Yeah, for how long, Will?" Don says, coming out and sliding the door shut behind him carefully.

"About four months."

Her jaw drops. "Then what will you do?"

"Weekly newsmagazine. Sunday nights, one hour long, two in-depth segments and a roundtable discussion."

"Why?"

"They kicked my favorite producer upstairs and gave me some new guy."

She stares at Will and Mac. "That's horrible! Mac, you've been good, you've been loyal, they can't just _replace_ you with some snazzy young flake!"

"Why don't you elaborate a bit, Will?" Don prompts, one eyebrow cocked, and she gets the distinct feeling she's missing something. "Because the snazzy young flake might take issue with that statement."

Will rolls his eyes, but says, "MacKenzie here has been promoted to SVP of special investigations. Given that, plus the fact that we're adopting this little girl and we all know I won't be around to see _her_ kids grow up, I thought it would be nice to scale back a bit. So I'll be doing a weekly newsmagazine and handling the pickups and the drop-offs and the bath time and the … whatever."

"He's going to pick up Max from preschool too, aren't you, Will?" Sloan asks, sliding the door behind her and crawling into her husband's chair, swinging her legs over his lap. "We'll send them to preschool together and you can pick up Max and take him home and play trains and make him ants on a log."

"Why the fuck would I feed kids ants, Sloan?" Will practically growls. Sloan and Don share an eyeroll as Sloan plays with the curls on the nape of Don's neck.

"One day," Sloan sighs.

"Who is the flaky new producer?" Maggie prompts, pulling everyone back on track.

They all look at each other, and she does the math. "Don?"

"Yup," he says, slightly bashfully.

"You're going to _News Night_?"

"Yup."

"You've … done this before." At NBC, he was the senior executive producer of the _Nightly News_ and the New York news director. She knew he was overseeing plenty of long-term projects: The 2016 elections, plenty of international coverage, investigations on voter disenfranchisement, standardized-testing cheating rings, regime falls, the death penalty and race, and political scandals like the NSA tracking. He also had a much bigger audience, and could get home by 7:30 nightly. "Like, it's great, but you've done cable news EP, you did it with Elliot."

Don smiles enigmatically. "I can't tell you _how_, Ms. CNN, but it will be different. I promise."

She knows she needs to take it at face value, so she says, "I'm sorry for calling you a snazzy flake." She knows there must be more going on, but she takes it for now.

They laugh. "I've been called worse."

"Sloan, are you moving back to ACN?"

Sloan shakes her head and laughs. "No way. My last year at ACN, I got sent to _two_ hurricanes. At Bloomberg, I cover what I want to cover. Until ACN can promise I won't traipse around South Florida in crazy boots anymore, I'm staying put."

"You looked cute in the boots," Don says.

"You looked ridiculous in the boots," Mac laughs.

"Who knows — I know a few people over there," Sloan says, one eyebrow cocked at her husband.

Everyone laughs, and then Sloan pats Don's back and says, "It's getting chilly. Let's get this cleaned up and go inside."

"I'll help," MacKenzie volunteers.

Maggie, Will, and Don linger as the other two begin gathering dishes and plates. She knows she should help, but it's a gorgeous night and she just … misses New York. There, she said it. CNN is great and Atlanta is nicer weather, but New York was always the dream. It was her first city.

"It's good city, Maggie," Will says, taking a sip of bourbon. "You should come back here."

"Give me a job and I'll think about it," she smiles.

Will and Don exchange _another_ look. "And that's my cue to go," Will says, gathering the leftover placemats.

When he's gone, Maggie looks bluntly at Don. "Ok. What the fuck am I missing?"

"What do you mean?" Don asks, pushing the lone remaining wine bottle towards her.

She sighs, pours herself a glass. "I mean … A. You called me about nine times today, which is double the number of times we've talked since I moved. You tracked me down for something. B. Sloan's show airs at noon, which means she is in around 6:30, at the latest, each morning. But if you're on NewsNight, you're not home till 10, at the earliest, each night. So when are you going to see your wife with this job? And C. You're one of the most ambitious people I know, Don. You want president of a news division, hell, maybe a whole network, and you want it before you're 50. So why are you going back to EP-ing a show you did more than five years ago?"

"Because I'm not going to be the EP," he says simply.

She sits back. "What do you mean?"

"I'm there to ease Will off the air as a favor. I'll be leading the search for a new anchor and EP. As soon I get the show off the ground, I'm taking over as SVP of primetime and breaking news. I'll be overseeing all the shows from 5 till 11 and getting us to be better, faster, with stories in general."

"Oh," she says, because that makes perfect sense. He won't have to be in the studio most days, can get away with watching from home and relying on EPs.

"It'll be four months with a headset, tops," he says.

"Charlie's grooming you," she deduces. It makes sense — he is approaching 75.

He shrugs. "Nothing's written in stone, but it's a good opportunity."

"That's amazing," she says. "Congratulations. You'll be great." She really, really means it. But then she realizes he absolutely can't be telling her things, so she socks him in the shoulder.

"Hey! I have three kids to pick up," he moans, rubbing the non-bruise.

"You can't tell me these things! I work at a competitor, you dipwad! Telling me this is unethical! I could use this information against you!"

"Yeah...About that," he says. "What would you say about, you know, not working for a competitor?"

"I need a job, Don," she says, in a 'duh' voice.

"Well clearly," he says. "I meant, what do you think about working at ACN in New York again?"

"Excuse me?" she blinks.

"I need a senior producer at 8 p.m.," he says, and her jaw drops. "I need someone who knows ACN, gets what I want without me having to explain three times, has experience. You said it yourself — I have kids, and 8 p.m. is the worst time slot for that. Particularly as I'm launching the show _and _managing the SVP duties, I need someone to help set the tone, manage the day-to-day and back me up." `

She's struck. She knew that was the path she was on — she's a news producer, after all — but she didn't expect it at ACN, from her long-ago ex, at this point in her life.

But while she likes Atlanta, it is not New York. And she loves New York. She loves the busy, center-of-the-world feeling she gets living in New York. She loves the subway and the overpriced lattes and how, when she works until past midnight, so are a million other people. She loves morning runs in Central Park and arguing with cabbies. She wants this.

"I'll take it," she says. "Just one condition."

"Shoot," Don says.

"I can't work with Jim Harper."

* * *

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky


	2. Chapter One -- Don

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed chapter one! I'm happy and surprised I turned this over so quickly. A few details and references about people's pasts may be a little confusing, but they're explained in the series of one-offs I'm also doing (plug!), so if they're truly making you lost head over there. And this chapter features Don! Happy, confident, married-and-kicking-ass Don. Hopefully our favorite insecure lovable asshole is still recognizable under all this well-shouldered responsibility.

* * *

_Love is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world for himself for another's sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things."_ — Rilke

_May 16_

Don Keefer is on top of the motherfucking world.

He's not one ever given to hyperbole, and rarely to drama, so the statement is pretty damn close to accurate. He has a gorgeous, funny, genius-smart wife whom he is still crazy about, who takes his breath away whenever he stops and thinks for a second. He falls more in love with her each day, each month, each year, as they laugh and argue and flirt and raise kids and balance careers and get older together. He has three healthy, smart, _hilarious_ kids, and he gets to watch them find out more about the world each day. His mom is kicking it, and happier than she was when he was growing up. He's close to his siblings and likes his in-laws. He's got great friends. He's about to start a dream job, earlier than he ever anticipated getting the position.

He leaves NBC at the end of April but is mandated to take a month off, per the terms of his contract, so he and Sloan take the kids out to visit her parents at their California place. They're getting better at flying, thank god, and take the six A.M. flight so the kids sleep through the first half. Once they're in San Francisco, they all spend four days at her parents' house, then Nami and Tom keep the kids while the two of them go to Napa for four days, then they take the kids back and spend another six, just the five of them, at Sloan's family's beach house in Carmel. It's peaceful and rejuvenating. The girls figure out how to build sandcastles, and Max figures out exactly how many buckets of water it will take to soak sandcastles built by impatient toddlers. It's great.

When they come back, he's got another two weeks off, and he gets to be a stay-at-home dad when Sloan goes back to her 10-hour-plus days. It's glorious. He still has one of the nannies (they have two, since both are in grad school) come in at least three days a week, and schedules conference calls and meetings so he can hit the ground running June 1, since ACN primetime is a fucking ossified hot mess. But otherwise it's sneaking Max out of preschool (whatever, he can read already), and going to the museums and biking in the park and playing with the dog and day trips to the beach.

The four of them and Smith are out on Coney Island, and enjoying ice cream on the boardwalk, when he gets a call from Mac. "Yo," he says, hastily wiping chocolate off of Emma's mouth. She bats his hand away irritably, preferring to try and lick the chocolate herself.

"How's your time off going, buster?" she asks.

"Oh, you know. Eating ice cream on Coney Island. The hard life," he drawls. "What's up? You guys want to do dinner on Saturday?" They haven't seen Mac and Will since before they left for California.

"Sure, but I'm actually calling about work," she starts.

It's going to be great, working with Mac again. Nobody at NBC gives shit as freely or as lovingly as Mac. He'll have nominal authority over her, since he'll basically be running the news division for Charlie, but they're mostly going to work together. She is going to be _fantastic_ at special programming.

"What's up?" he asks. "Annie, no honey, don't take that shoe off," he says, catching her trying to unbuckle her silver Mary Janes. "I'm listening."

"I got a call from Jim today," she says.

"How's Riyadh?" He hasn't had a whole lot of contact with Jim Harper in the last four years, just a few emails here and there. Since Jim had relocated to the Middle East following The Accident, only Mac had really heard from him regarding anything remotely personal, and even then he'd only ever reached out to her with ACN stuff. The last email Don had gotten was a congratulations email following the twins' birth. He'd emailed back a thank you and left the door open, but Jim hadn't taken the opportunity. Don knew that returning to ACN meant he'd probably come into orbit with Jim again, at least tangentially, but the degree to which Jim had cut off ties had been extraordinary.

"He's based in Ankara now, actually," Mac says. "Has been for about a year. I thought I'd mentioned that? Anyways, I thought it was going alright … But he wants to come home."

"Come home?"

"Back to the States. He asked me if he could be tagged out, and if we had anything open in New York."

Don knocks his head back against the bench with a thud, since Sloan decided they couldn't say _fuck_ around the kids. "Seriously? He wants to come back to New York? Now?"

"Yes. I said that you would call him. We have to find a place for him stateside once he's done two terms overseas, which he has, if he asks. It's in his contract."

And Don knows exactly what position Jim should get: international news director. Elise Rostow, who's run the desk for almost twenty years, wants to simply produce for the three senior international correspondents. The last assistant director moved to Fox six months ago and they haven't made a move on the position. Jim coming back to fill it would be great for the company.

"OK, for the record, I can't believe I'm saying this and it's almost emasculating," Don says. "But Maggie specifically said that she would not work with Jim, and she's already quit her job and sold her apartment to take the _News Night_ gig. You get both their crazy better than I do. Is this going to be a headache?"

"I don't know," she says.

"Have they patched things up since they left?"

"I have no idea."

"Can we trust them to not make it a thing in the newsroom, especially if they're on different teams?" His eyes follow Clem and Max as they begin to run up and down the boardwalk. The girls are still smearing ice cream on their faces.

"I hope so, but I have no idea, and quite frankly I doubt it."

He sighs, and pinches his nose. He doesn't trust either of them, at all, to _not_ turn this into a Thing and have big pontificating fights in full public view. He's pretty sure that once she finds out, Maggie will corner him and yell irrational things, and Maggie kind of scares him when she's in that mode, since he is used to dealing with Sloan, who is _never_ irrational, which is in and of itself, irrational. He respects both Maggie and Jim, as people and journalists; he would love to have them both on his staff. And as a friend and as a parent, he can't imagine going through what they went through together and surviving. But he also knows them, and knows that whatever happens won't be pretty, or calm, or done quietly and without sucking everyone else in, either.

"They're in their _thirties_," he finally whines, wiping down Annie's hands. "They've been doing this bullsh — this crap for a good eight years now. It was problematic eight years ago. Why can't we, you know ..."

"Move on?"

"Well no, but also, _yes_. Exactly. Get off the fucking merry-go-round." Whoops. He turns. Neither girl was really paying attention.

"True love never did run smooth," Mac sages.

He groans. "Are _you_ going to be able to not meddle, and inflame a situation that will already basically have gasoline poured all over this?"

"That was my deadpan English humor," Mac complains.

"My Mac's-English-to-American-English dictionary is at home, sorry," he says. He sighs again. He has real problems to deal with, but today, it looks like he's got to solve this one. And the mystery of where the hell Emerson's left shoe went. Somehow she had gotten a freaking _Converse_ all the way off. "Alright, Mac, text me his phone number? I'm going to give him a call when I've got a sec."

He finds the red ladybug sneaker kicked under the boardwalk, and the kids tire out soon after that. He loads them into the car for the ride back home. His prayer that they fall asleep in their car seats is answered, so he plugs his phone into the car system and tells it to call Jim.

"H'ro?" Jim says, voice cackling a little through the air.

"Hey man, it's Don. How ya doin? Mac gave me your number."

"Oh, hey. How've you been?"

"I'm good. Sorry — I'm in the car. Is now a good time to talk? I realized I'm not sure what the time difference is."

"No, it's fine. It's about 9 here. Congrats on the new job, by the way. That's amazing. Welcome back to ACN."

"Thanks, man," he hesitates, then decides he's no longer close enough (if he ever was) to prolong this conversation. "I heard you may be moving stateside as well?"

"I'd like to, yeah. I talked to Mac about it today. She said she'd talk to you."

"Yeah, and I know your contract says we bring you back if you want back. I've got a few ideas and I'm going to talk to Charlie. I feel like I need to give you a head's up, though: Maggie's coming back to New York. She's signed on to be senior producer for News Night. She starts at the beginning of June."

The line goes quiet, and Don clears his throat. "I don't know if that makes a difference, but I wanted you to know. She's already quit her job, bought a new apartment, it's not something we can just take back. She's coming to New York. I want you back, Jimmy, I just need to know that you can work in the … general vicinity of her."

The line is silent for a minute. "That's great, that she wants to come back to New York. We'll be good. I mean, I can't speak for her. But I'll be good."

Don needs to be sure. Plane tickets and new employees are both expensive. "Because I'm only asking once."

"You only need to ask once," Jim says reassuringly.

From the back, Max stirs. "Daddy, Ms. Liv says you gotta turn off your voice during naptime," he says, sleepily.

"Sorry, buddy," he says, but Max is already back out. Jim is conspicuously quiet. "I'll talk to Charlie tomorrow," he promises, "and then get back in touch."

"Great. Talk to you soon," Jim says. "Have a good one."

The kids are waking up by the time he gets home, thank god, since getting two toddlers and a preschooler upstairs without one of them waking up is beyond even his admittedly ace dad skills. He tries calling Charlie to chat with him twice, but it goes straight to voicemail. Weird.

Sloan finds them in a blanket fort in the playroom a few hours later. "Mama! We made a fort. Come on in," Max yells when they hear her enter downstairs.

"What's down here?" she says a few minutes later, kicking off her boots and entering. The girls are lying on their backs, giggling and playing something on the iPad, and Max is making faint shadow puppets as Don holds a flashlight.

"A party," Max answers tartly.

"Mama!" both girls shriek, standing and running toward her. Emma's got the tablet, so they settle into her lap and immediately start showing her the game as she smooths back their hair to kiss their foreheads. Weighed down by the kids, she just reaches out and squeezes his hand in greeting as he keeps holding the flashlight for Max.

"What did we do today with unemployed Daddy?" she asks after the girls are done.

"We go to beach and eat ice cream," Susannah says.

"And choc'late," Emerson adds.

"Jeez guys, that was a _secret_ from Mama," he laughs.

"I like unemployed. I didn't go to school," Max says seriously. "Can we be unemployed all the time?"

"Absolutely not," Sloan says."Sorry, bud," she turns to her husband. "By the way, speaking of unemployment, Charlie called me. Said you called him but when he tried to call you back, you didn't pick up?" she raises an eyebrow and he groans internally. He knows she absolutely hates it when people — anyone, even Charlie or Elliot or Mac — calls her when they can't get ahold of him for professional reasons. Personal, fine. But she thinks professional makes her a secretary. He doesn't agree, necessarily, but it's not worth arguing over. He fishes his cell out of his back pocket and yep, there's a missed call from Charlie, as well as another five or six.

"I should call him back," he says, scrolling through his messages.

"Alright, but let's get dinner soon," Sloan says, tickling the twins.

"I want pizza. PIZZA!" Max shouts excitedly.

"Pizza, pizza!" Emerson says, as Susannah nods and sing-songs, "Cheese please!" which is something that Amelia, Elliot's youngest, taught her. Their parents exchange looks over their heads and laugh.

"Whatever," Sloan shakes her head. "They already had their appetites ruined with all the chocolate and ice cream anyways," she teases. "You guys good to play in here?" she asks, as she stands to duck and leave. With a chorus of 'yes'es, they both trip out of the tiny fort.

"I'm going to steam some vegetables, too," she says.

"Sounds good," he says, distracted, but then feels a twinge of guilt. "How was work? We were on the beach, so I didn't catch the show."

She shrugs, thumbing through her phone for the pizza place. "Good. The euro is going to drag the whole world down with it, but that's not really news anymore, is it? What does Charlie want that couldn't wait?"

He shrugs. "Jim wants to move back stateside. Charlie and I have to find a place for him."

She snorts. "Reuniting the band," she says.

"I'm a regular Pete Best," he agrees.

"Brian Epstein," she corrects.

"Who?"

"Pete Best was the first drummer, who got replaced by Ringo. Brian Epstein was the manager. You should listen when Will talks, sometimes."

"You thought Justin Timberlake was in the Backstreet Boys for more than 10 years," he retorts, smirking. That one was one of his favorite Sloan facts to find out, ever. "And the band's not quite all back together."

He knows she knows what he means, but ignores it. "That was a legitimate mistake. And good luck getting Neal to come back, since ProPublica is basically paying him to goof off on the Internet all day."

"Yeah, but I don't like looking at him as much as I like looking at you," he says bluntly, so she can't avoid the comment.

She sighs, and sets down her phone. They've touched tangentially on this before, the possibility of her making the jump to ACN, which he wants to have happen. A lot of that is personal, obviously: He works best when she's around. He would love to be able to pop down to the studio to watch her tape again, to hide in her office when Charlie is after him, to grab breakfast with her, to bring Smith in to work again since they can alternate whose office he's parked in.

Beyond that, though, ACN is a better fit for her. She's one of the best in the business, and Bloomberg keeps her cloistered. She does more for their brand than it does for hers. Worse, since she _is_ their big star, she can walk all over their producers without even noticing it, so nobody's pushing her to be more and do more as a journalist. So he's worried that, in five years when she wants to get a little bit more back in the game (she moved to dayside news to be done by 5 each day), it won't be as easy as it could be. "Don, you would be my boss, that's just too …"

"Too what?"

"Complicated," she finishes.

"I _would_ diagonally outrank you," he says, "if you were on dayside, which is where you want to be, I thought. _You _would still probably make more money. I think it's actually pretty even."

"I like Bloomberg."

"Bloomberg's for insiders. You got into journalism to help regular people know what's going on. On ACN, you can do the same type of stuff, but get your information to the people who need to understand it. You can do more good at ACN."

"You say that now, but you would also acknowledge the ratings mandate ACN has that Bloomberg doesn't _because_ of those viewer differences," she says. "And if I'm on dayside news — which I think is what I would have to do, so we could keep the same schedule for the kids — I'd be more likely to have to do stories about the next Jodi Arias trial, or the latest viral dance craze, or the finger the little girl found deep-fried in her Original Recipe chicken in some small town in Missouri," she points out.

"Sloan, you've got the name recognition at this point that you wouldn't have to cover that," he points out.

"No, I'm married to _you_, so I have the protection and I wouldn't _have_ to cover it," she says, then sighs. "I need to call Antonio's. And you need to call Charlie. Can we talk about this later?"

"Sure," he agrees easily, because he never expected to convince her in one conversation. He taps Charlie's name and waits for the ring tone.

"Donny boy," Charlie says after two rings.

"Pretty sure the song is 'Danny boy,'" he retorts.

"Are you coming in for the numbers meeting with Reese tomorrow?"

"Ten a.m., I'll be there," he says. "Listen, we're about to eat, but I wanted to let you know: I think I solved the problem at the international desk."

"I wasn't aware we had a problem at the international desk."

"Elise wanting to move isn't a problem?"

"It's all in the framing. It's a hiccup. She'll stay if we ask."

"Or you could let her move, since I found a solution."

"Which is?"

"Jim Harper called Mac today. He wants to come back to the New York bureau. I think he'll be a good fit."

"_That_ Jim Harper?"

"His contract says two rounds abroad and he can ask to come back. We have to find a position for him at equal salary. He's on his _fourth_ yearlong contract, so the options are we bring him back and put him to work; he sues; or he quits."

"Or he continues to wander around the fucking wilderness," Charlie says. "That's an option too."

"I'm not saying he doesn't have spectacularly fucking bad timing; I'm saying that ACN doesn't have a whole lot of options here and we might want to, I don't know, at least make it work for us."

"You brought Maggie back for 8 p.m. Did he and Maggie reconcile?" Charlie asks.

"Based on my conversations with both of them, nope. Absolutely not. I got the impression she didn't even know he was abroad."

"How did you get that impression?"

"How? Because when I had dinner with her she said her one condition was that she not have to work with Jim Harper. I said that wouldn't be a problem; he doesn't even work there anymore. She didn't know he wasn't in New York."

"He _does_ fucking work here!"

"Not _here_, here," Don explains. "I thought it was semantics."

"Don, you've worked in news for almost 20 fucking years; surely you've learned that semantics always bite you in the ass?"

"Yes, but that's usually when lawyers are involved," he shrugs, even though Charlie can't see him. "Anyways, I'm not asking you to handle, or care, or even acknowledge, the middle-school cafeteria politics that are probably going to ensue. Mac will, because she can't help herself. But I need to get permission to hire a department head from you since he wouldn't just report to me."

Charlie sighs. "Fine. But I'm serious, if I so much hear a goddamn …"

"Won't happen," he promises.

"Good. I had to go through Will and Mac already. I'm too old for this," he says. "The Giants are playing the Yankees this weekend. Would you all be up for joining Nancy and I to watch the Giants get their asses kicked? Zoe is bringing her latest boyfriend and he's incapable of complete sentences."

"I'd hate for my kids to be exposed to the language and violence you and Sloan will use during this game," he says dryly. "Lemme check, alright? I'll let you know at the ratings meeting tomorrow."

"We have a restructuring meeting after that."

"And a viewer retention meeting after that," Don finishes. "Have a good one, Charlie."

He pads back into the kitchen, where Sloan is steaming vegetables and setting the table. "The pizza should be here in about 20 minutes. Do you want a salad?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Great. There's kale and tomatoes and peppers in the fridge." He should have seen that coming.

"Charlie wants to know if we want to go with him and Nancy to the Giants-Yankees game this weekend," he says, as he grabs the vegetables out of the crisper.

"Only if he's comfortable crying in front of the kids," she smirks. "We have the TIME 100 thing on Saturday but Sunday's afternoon game should be good."

"Cool, I'll tell him tomorrow. Lily's babysitting Saturday night, right?" His 'I'm going to be a true artist' baby sister needed all the extra babysitting money she could get.

"Yep. Are you going into ACN tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Cristina is coming in around nine."

"You guys taking anchors to lunch yet?"

"Not yet," he sighs. Sloan, although she thinks the new job is great, is wary about the fact that, as long as there's no official new EP, he won't be getting home until almost 10 each night. "Once Will steps down I think we'll move Terri to eight o'clock, run docs and specials at nine, and then lead into Aaron at 10 for the first two weeks if we haven't found an EP to handle a rotating cast of talent."

"It sucks that Elliot won't consider 8; he'd be great at it."

"Same reason both of us don't like 8; he's got kids," he shrugs, popping a tomato into his mouth.

"If you're going to be bringing Jim back anyways you could make him EP at 8 and then he and Maggie can just have a big old screaming fight in the newsroom and then have sex in the conference room," Sloan says, pulling the broccoli out of the microwave. She tests a floret and winces at the heat.

"I do that and you're a single parent," he points out.

"Have you _told_ Maggie that he's coming back?"

"Hell, no. I plan on doing that _after_ she starts working for me," he says.

Sloan looks dubious. "Good luck with that one, bucko."

"You think I should call her up and say, 'Hey Maggie, remember the ex-boyfriend you never wanted to see or hear from again? And how I said you wouldn't see him if you came back to ACN? Psych!' Yeah, right." Sloan's quiet, which is never good, so he says, "What?"

"I just … You know how sometimes we tell Max, 'if you're going to act like a baby, we're going to treat you like a baby?'"

"We don't say that."

"OK, right, not in those words, but there's the thought. We'll treat him like a big kid until he starts throwing a temper tantrum, and then he gets treated like a little kid."

"Yeah? I'm not seeing your point here, Sloan."

"I'm getting there," she says. "My question is, has anyone ever actually treated Maggie like the big kid? When she was working on _News Night_, she got … coddled. Professionally. Personally. Everyone _likes_ Maggie and _roots_ for her, but she kinda got treated as the kid sister a lot of the time. And I'm not saying she rose above it. But if you set a low bar and then she meets expectations exactly, who's really to blame when she screws up?"

He cocks his head as he tries to process. He knows that Sloan has a point, to some extent. He had approached his relationship with both of them differently in part because Sloan simply demanded a different approach, demanded his A-game, and he'd never brought that with Maggie. But he had always assumed that was mostly a consequence of their vastly different personalities, backgrounds, and emotional triggers, and because Sloan matched (and outmatched) him in entirely new ways. Plus, he'd gone into the relationship with Sloan with a hell of a lot more intention than he'd ever approached any relationship. But — "Ok, A, Maggie went through some pretty bad shit, professionally and personally, while at ACN. Everyone was understandably a little … protective of her. But B, you think I should tell her, and potentially lose my senior producer for 8 o'clock? The only reason I _might_ get home before 10 any time in the month of June?"

"I don't think you'll lose her," Sloan says. "I'm saying whenever she's at ACN, she gets _managed_. She doesn't need it, she doesn't deserve it, and it takes a toll on everyone. Just be upfront! Say, Jim's coming back, which we didn't expect and I'm sorry, and we trust you to be professional."

"That backfires, and I lose a senior producer _and_ throw something back in her face."

His wife shrugs. "I just think she can handle more than people let her handle, it's all. Yes, we need to be aware of her feelings with Jim and of the accident, but honestly, there are two people that know what happened there, and neither she nor Jim are talking. And she's what, 34? For crying out loud. She's a grown woman. We were _married_ and I was pregnant with Max when I was 34."

"Wait — ohmygod — you were thirty-_four_ when our son was born? Wait, how did I miss that? Does that make you — shit — how old are you now? And when's your birthday? You do have a birthday, right? And do we, like, have an anniversary, that I should be aware of? Have I missed all of those over the last six years? How did I not know how old you were?" he teases.

Her jaw drops, and she lightly smacks his bicep and says, "Mean!" before tickling his side, where she knows he's actually ticklish. He tries to grab her hands and make her stop. As her laughter subsides, she reaches up and kisses the hollow of his neck. "It's your call. All I'm saying is maybe we give Maggie a little more credit here. I'm going to go get the kids cleaned up for dinner."

The meetings the next day — with Reese and Charlie and the nerds from the ratings department and the chiefs of various news desks and departments — are grim. Ratings have been stagnant for long enough that it's becoming a concern, and there aren't any real big draws at any of the primetime spots, minus Terri in D.C, and their 5-8 p.m. evening coverage, which he now oversees too, honestly isn't much better. A whole new lineup, launched in fall, makes the most sense. It'll give them splash and style and substance (well, hopefully, it will give them substance). But they've relied on Will and, to a lesser extent, Terri, for too long. Their bench is not deep, nor are the pockets, and so they're a teensy bit fucked. It's a whole new set of concerns than when he was just EP-ing.

"Cressida's been hitting it out of the park on weekends and fills, plus she's a known face as the legal correspondent. She could get the ten," Don suggests, once it's just the three of them shooting the shit.

"Not enough gravitas," Reese says.

"You mean, she's a woman," Don counters.

"Yes. Welcome to the big leagues, Donny."

"You know, I've never been called that till this past week, and I gotta say I'm not crazy about it," Don replies.

"It's true, though," Charlie says, throwing down his pen. "There's one woman right now with the cojones to move to being a sole anchor in primetime, and you're married to her."

"You know, build a studio in our apartment, and we'll talk. She wants to be home at night."

"Your salary ain't bad, and she's one of the 20 highest-paid anchors on TV, plus a stock market genius. Pretty sure you could afford a nanny to handle that."

"We actually have two already and, you know, I think that's an excellent tack to take with her and you should definitely make that the centerpiece of your argument. 'We'll pay you so you never have to see your kids again.'"

"She's seriously going to stay out of primetime? Until when? The twins leave for college?" Reese asks.

"Right now this is a schedule that works for us. We both get time with the kids, and we get to keep doing our jobs. I could see her switching to evening in a few years but she's not going to do 8 or 10 anytime soon. She's not Megyn Kelly, and she's not married to … whatever the fuck Megyn Kelly's husband is named; I've met him six times and can't ever remember his name. He's boring. He stays at home and caters whims. That's not her and that's not us," he says.

"We need a bench," Charlie says. "If we offer her dayside with a move to evenings in two years do you think she'll bite?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. It's _her_ career. The only thing I know for sure is that she's going to end it teaching economics at Columbia. And I know that if you want her, I can't be the one to pitch her." He's beginning to understand why Sloan is so tetchy about people calling her when he doesn't pick up.

"Jesus Christ, seriously?" Reese says.

"Uh, you've met Sloan, right? If you're serious about this, take her out to goddamn lunch. We've spoken about it, but she'll shoot down an actual offer from me faster than she'll tell a Tea Party congressman off for threatening to shut down the government. And you wouldn't want her to be your anchor otherwise. If you have an offer, you can fucking take it to her."

Reese sighs. "We needed to announce a name five weeks ago. Find me a fucking list of six guys to consider for eight and for ten. I need it by Friday." He gets up and leaves.

"You know, if he started marrying women with IQs over 85, I think he'd be less of a prick," Don says.

"He's not going to be able to do that until his mother dies, because all women with IQs above 85 are intimidated by her or are too good for him," Charlie counters. Don concedes he has a point.

"I'm going to go talk to Mac about the offer to Jim," he says, getting up. "And then I'm headed out. I don't technically work here yet and I feel like I've been in this conference room for an eon."

"Just eight hours."

"I could have watched all of _The Lord of the Rings_ in that time," he points out.

He checks Will's first, but ultimately finds Mac in her own office. He notices immediately that she's begun packing up for her move upstairs: Her desk is much neater, and most of the old clips and rundowns have been taken off the wall. A few photos usually on her desk — her and her dad; her and her nephews; her and Will; her with Sloan at their wedding — are gone. There is only one pair of shoes lounging under her desk, instead of the usual eight.

Even though he's returning to ACN, he feels like with Will and Mac both transitioning, it's the end of an era. Under their crazy, questionable leadership — because that's what it _was_; at the end of the day, the two of them set the tone in the newsroom — he'd had the two of the most significant relationships of his life, fallen in love, gotten married, had his first kid, gotten his best promotions, done some of his finest work as a journalist. Grown up, albeit about fifteen years too late. It's all different now.

"Hey," she says, spooked a little by his sudden presence. "I didn't realize you were still here."

"You'd be surprised at how long Reese's meetings can last."

"I don't think I can, actually," she replies. "What's up?"

"I talked to Charlie. We're going to bring Jim back as international news director, to replace Elise."

"That's fantastic. That's a perfect fit."

"Yeah. I'm going to call him today, but I figure he'll start in the beginning of July," he says, a little uneasily.

"What's wrong?"

He rolls his eyes. "Jim and Maggie …"

"I think this is great for them. It'll be good. They can heal." He can practically see the wedding bells dancing in her eyes.

"Yeah. Mac, do you remember what you said to me about sin, once?"

"Sin?"

"Yes, sin." She cocks her head, clearly drawing a blank. "You said that you felt that you can tell when we've broken one of God's laws, one of those universal laws, when we break something so badly we can't put it back together again. You then compared your relationship with Will to slavery."

"Well, that sounds very melodramatic of me."

"It was during Genoa. A melodramatic time," he says. "Listen, I'm just trying to say — Jim and Maggie. That might be them. I can see the wheels, whatever, and I'm just warning you — that might be one of those laws. I know you see them as a younger you and Will —"

"Not all of us can be you and Sloan, getting married after less than a year together."

"Yeah, it just took me four years to kiss her. Not sure we're that much smarter." He refocuses. "I'm saying, they've been through a lot, and it's kind of shitty circumstance that's throwing them back in the same room. So don't — do your thing. No … shenanigans."

"It's been four years, Don, surely they can —"

"They lost a kid, Mac. They get to do whatever they want, on their timeline."

"They lost a pregnancy."

"They'd decorated a nursery. They had a name. They lost a kid. If that … I can't even think about that, Mac. I'm just saying — don't meddle. For their sakes. Let them work it out on their own, ok? They're grown-ups."

"I believe real grown-ups call themselves _adults_," she says, but she's just joshing him.

"I'm just suggesting space, that's all," he says. "I'm going to call Jim in the morning. Because I'm pretty sure it's like three a.m. where he is."

"Sounds good. We'll see you guys at the gala, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course," he says, though it is not of course and he doesn't like galas or his tux, though he does love whatever the fuck Sloan wears. This year, it is shimmery and blue-y and one-shoulder-y. He takes a look at the TV. "You leading with the climate speech or Somalia tonight?"

"Climate, then Somalia, then the Abu Ghraib trials," she says. "You should get home so you can watch. Tell Sloan to tell her dad congratulations, by the way."

He pauses, makes a face. "I will?" he says, letting the question hang.

"The President appointed him to the Federal Reserve today. You didn't see it?"

He raises his eyebrows. Tom hadn't mentioned that when they were in California. Sloan wouldn't be too happy. "Oh. Yeah. Thanks. I will."

"Get home safe," Mac calls.

"Thanks. See you tomorrow." With that, he finally, mercifully, makes his way from AWM.

* * *

Thanks for making it through this! Would love to hear your thoughts :)


	3. Chapter Two -- Maggie

Hi all! Happy Labor Day :) Having tomorrow off enabled me to finish this chapter pretty quickly, and I decided to post it today since there's no new episode tonight to tide us through the week. This one is super-long (my apologies!) so I'm super-thankful for everyone who reads it. I had to cover a lot of ground with Maggie, which is why it's so long. The next chapter will likely be Mac, followed by a Sloan one, though RL means it might be a while. This one is a little slow-moving, but once Jim makes his reappearance, things will definitely pick up.

_And it is not particular at all, _

_Just old truth dawning: there is no next-time-round. _

_Unroofed scope. Knowledge-freshening wind._

_-_Seamus Heaney, Lightenings

* * *

_Maggie_

_June 9_

Maggie is exhausted by the move before she even gets to New York. It takes longer than anticipated to sell the Atlanta condo, and longer than anticipated to find an apartment in Manhattan, and what she gets is approximately one-third the size of her Atlanta place and costs twenty percent more. It takes longer than anticipated to pack, and longer than anticipated to break it off with Matt, the accountant she's been kind-of-sort-of seeing for six months, but with whom she has zero desire to do long distance. He doesn't either, but they linger weirdly. She blames the fact that this is not how she expected her life to be at 34.

She drives up on her own, and the Lincoln Tunnel is pure misery. While the moving guys are very nice and carry her stuff up four flights of stairs and set all her possessions down gently in the living room, she then actually has to _unpack_ them. She briefly thinks about calling Tess, or Kendra, or Jenna, but thinks that Kendra may have left New York, Tess definitely has a brand-new baby, and god only knows when she spoke to Jenna last. She _could_ call the Keefers or the McAvoys, but their kindness and enthusiasm would be mildly humiliating. Plus it's a Saturday and she would feel bad disrupting their weekends.

_(She is absolutely not calling Jim Harper.) _

_(She's not even sure if he is in New York.) _

_(She's not sure which one she would prefer.) _

So she slogs through the boxes, eventually taking a break around 7. She roots around in a suitcase, finds her backup pair of yoga pants, and heads down to pick up a pizza and a bottle of cheap wine. She brings it back and sits on her couch to eat, staring at the blank TV as she chews. She can't find cups, so she just swigs the wine from the bottle. _Classy, Maggie_, she chides herself.

Sunday she digs out running clothes and jogs down to Battery Park and back. She resolves to get at least the living room unpacked. After two movies on iTunes and polishing off the bottle of wine from the night before, she's about to get started when there is a knock on the door. Setting down the bottle, she moves to get the door, wondering who the hell even knows where she lives.

She swings open the door, and stares blankly at Mac and Sloan. She honestly has no idea why they are here. Surely they must have better things to do on a Saturday, particularly Sloan, who has three kids to parent. And she doesn't think the three of them qualify as friends, exactly — Mac and Sloan were best friends, obviously, but she mostly remembers her relationship with both of them as largely one-off instances where they'd gotten her out of a tough spot, mostly out of pity or compassion. They'd become closer when she was with Jim and after, but still. She wasn't sure it was friendship.

But she isn't exactly sure where her friends are — or who they even are — so she'll take this. "Hi!" she trills, smiling too broadly. "What … How did you find me?"

"You'd faxed your employment stuff into ACN and I peeked," Mac says, kissing her cheek and walking in. She's wearing a gauzy mauve top and black capris, while Sloan has on a loose, angular navy shirt with cut-out lace shoulders, flat ankle boots and muted mustard-yellow jeans. Maggie feels incredibly self-conscious in her overstretched yoga pants. "We thought you might need some help unpacking."

"Oh," Maggie says. "Yeah. Unpacking." She looks around helplessly. "I started yesterday, but … you know, these things. It's a work in progress." She looks around at the thousand boxes and runs both hands through her hair. "There are lots of things."

"What do you need help with? We are at your service," Mac beams. So they set to work, Sloan mopping up counters and organizing the kitchen, Mac hanging photos, and Maggie organizing the bedroom.

"Thanks for coming, you two, I really appreciate it," Maggie calls to them.

"We're happy to," Mac says. "Are you excited for your first day tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I think so," she says. The next few months will be crazy, managing the day-to-day of Will's final run, and assisting Don as he hunts for the elusively perfect new EP and host, but she is looking forward to it. "So what's new at ACN?" she calls.

"Don't work there, remember?" Sloan calls back.

"Don's a total gossip, though, don't lie," Mac laughs. "Most of the staff is new, I guess, though control room guys are probably the same. Jenna's still around; she's a news producer covering technology and business innovation. And Tess is the senior producer from three to five."

"She had a baby, right?" Maggie says, conversationally. She swallows, hard. "Late last year?"

There's a pause from the other room, and Mac says, a little weakly, "Yeah. Toby. He was born the week between Christmas and New Year's. They live in Greenpoint."

"That's great," Maggie says. "I'll … I'll have to stop by and meet him."

There's another long, uncomfortable pause and Sloan appears, leaning in the doorway. Mac is right behind her. "Maggie, we just wanted to talk about ...," Sloan starts.

"It's fine," Maggie smiles, shaking her shoulders in reassurance. "Really. I haven't seen Tess in a while. I'm excited that I'll be working with her again." Sloan and Mac don't look like they believe her, and — worse — they look like they pity her. "_Really_," she emphasizes. "Guys, it's been almost four years since I … since everything. I'm not going to break every time I see a friend with a kid. It's fine."

"We're not saying that it's not, it's just —"

"I had a _miscarriage_," she looks straight at them. It feels good, to say the word out loud again. She'd avoided it for so long. "It happens. It happens pretty frequently, in fact. It sucks, but it happens pretty frequently. I'm not going to avoid friends with kids. I mean, I'm in my thirties, it's going to happen," she says.

"It was a lot more than a miscarriage," Sloan says, as Mac clucks, "Goodness, Maggie, you must know that it's OK to grieve. To really grieve."

"Guys. I didn't move back to New York for you to tell me if I _grieved_ the right way over something that happened almost four years ago," she feels weirdly hot, and defensive, and self-conscious. "Seriously. End of discussion. I mean it."

The next morning she shows up at 7:30 at ACN, taking a deep breath before she walks into the building and feeling a little like Mary Rogers. As soon as she gets to security, though, she realizes she has no idea who she's supposed to talk to. And of course she doesn't recognize the security guard. "Hi," she smiles. "I'm the new senior producer at eight o'clock. Is MacKenzie McHale or Don Keefer in?"

He snorts. "Ma'am, Don Keefer won't come in until at least 9:30."

"What about MacKenzie?"

"She know you're coming?"

"No. Well, yes, I mean, but no. She doesn't know how early I am. Can you just call her? Tell her it's Maggie?"

"Ms. _McAvoy_ doesn't like to be disturbed between 7 and 8 a.m."

Of course she doesn't, Maggie remembers, it's her gym time. She stares at the TV, blaring _ACN in the Morning_, and idly watches Elliot Hirsch interview an author. Then she gets an idea. "Sir, I promise you — call dayside control and ask to patch in to Elliot. Tell him Maggie Jordan is here to fill out her paperwork, and she will walk down to his favorite deli on 35th to get him a lox bagel if he vouches for me."

The guard looks skeptical, but agrees, and is surprised at the response. "He says he thinks you're supposed to go to HR on the 42nd floor. Ask for Linda."

"Thank you," she says gratefully, sliding through the gates and heading for the elevator bank.

After a morning spent filling out her paperwork and getting her photograph taken, she finds Don's new SVP office, seventeen floors above the newsroom, and knocks gently on the door. "Hey! Welcome back," he gives her a back-clapping hug.

"It's good to be back," she says, smiling. She can't quite believe it. "Let's get started. When's the first rundown meeting?"

"In about 10 minutes. Let's head down," he says, leading her into the hallway. "By the way, do you know a word that you can build out of the letters m, t, e, e, r, w, l, with the third letter n?"

"Uh, is this a hiring exercise? I thought I had the job?"

"No, you do. Sloan and I play Scrabble on our phones and she's up by 160."

"Aren't you the one with the master's in journalism?"

"Yeah, two Ph.D.s in economics means she ain't no slouch with fancy words. The last word she played was _jezebel _on a triple word score, with a few crossover words, for 90 points."

"That's not technical, that's lucky. What were the letters again?" she asks as the elevator doors open.

"M, t, e, e, r, w, l, third letter N. I need it to hit the triple-word score."

"Renew?" she tries.

He plays it and grimaces. "Twenty-four points. I'm gonna have to call it a game."

"What do you get if you win?"

He looks at her and shakes his head as they disembark. "You don't want to know."

_Oh. _Ew. "You guys are a special kind of strange," she says, looking around the newsroom. It feels good to be home. "Do I have a desk?"

"Of course you have a desk," he makes a motion. "It's that way."

"That way?" she questions skeptically, pointing in the same direction.

"It'll be ready later in the day," he smiles. "So let's talk rundown. I'm serious when I say I don't want to have to do too much. I'm in meetings on the 44th floor most of the day most days, except for rundowns and show time. Will's vision for the show is pretty clearly defined already, but he's kind of distracted and irritable since Mac officially left last week, and he's interviewing EPs for his new show. We'll be splitting duties for the next week but then I'd like to hand it over to you as much as possible. You cool with that?"

She smiles. "Yeah."

It's a familiar feeling when she walks into the news meeting. There's eight producers, plus Will, waiting. All of the producers just look damn _young. _"Ladies and gentlemen, guys and gals, cats and kittens, thanks for waiting," Don says. "Before we start, I wanted to quickly introduce our new senior producer, Margaret Jordan. Maggie started working at ACN back about nine years ago and spent five years here before jumping to CNN, and I'm happy that we've got her back. She's worked on _News Night_ with Will before, so luckily her spirit has already been broken. She'll be around to meet with you all one-on-one in the coming days, and shadowing me, but I wanted to dive right into the meeting. Andrew, what do we have on the energy deal?"

Don vanishes after the meeting, as does Will, but the youngest-looking producer, an AP with curly brown hair, says, "Your desk is over here. Don asked me to set it up yesterday."

"You're Charlotte, right?"

"Yeah. I used to go by Charlie but there's Charlie Skinner, so now I don't," she says.

"There really is only one Charlie, unfortunately," she smiles. "Do you want to go grab coffee? I want to get to know everyone, understand you all a little better, this week."

Charlotte smiles. "Sure. There's a cafe on —"

The 28th floor. Let's go."

"So you worked for ACN for five years?" Charlotte smiles.

"Yep," she nods. "I worked for my hometown paper in Minnesota for two years after school, but then decided I really wanted to be in New York. I started as an intern, became Will's assistant, and then when Mac showed up she promoted me to AP. I stayed on the production team for four years and then moved to Atlanta."

"Did you like CNN?"

"CNN is great. But Atlanta is not New York. So when Don invited me back, I said ok," she pushes the button for the elevator.

"Yeah, you know, there's a rumor, about you and Don," Charlotte says, casually. "Did you two used to date?"

"What?" she laughs. "Oh, my God," she laughs awkwardly, wondering if people could possibly think there was still something happening with them. If so, they had clearly never seen Don talk about Sloan. "In the pre-Stone Ages, when I first got to New York. It was ... on-off. We were … god, I was young. And we were legitimately terrible together. Awful. It took a while, but after we broke up, we figured out we could actually be friends and colleagues. It's so much better that way, too. He's a great, a really great, journalist and producer. Not long after our breakup, he started dating — have you met his wife, Sloan?"

"I've seen her on TV," Charlotte says.

"Well, after we broke up, he started dating Sloan. She just … this Don? The guy you know? That's all her," she smiles. "So, tell me your story. How did you end up at ACN?"

They're chatting about Charlotte's tenure as the editor in chief of the University of Michigan's student newspaper when a pair of hands covers her eyes from behind. Maggie twists to see who it is, then gasps happily. "Tess! Hey," she gives her a much longer embrace. "It's great to see you. It's been so long. Congrats, by the way. On the baby."

"Thanks," Tess smiles. "I'm glad you're back. We were so bummed we didn't really get to say goodbye."

"Yeah, it was sudden," she swallows. "And I missed everyone. I'm getting dinner with Neal tonight. How is everyone else?"

"Great. Jess and Tamara and Kendra are still around. Martin went to the Washington bureau. Gary went with Sloan to Bloomberg. Hopefully we'll see him more now that Don is back."

"Awesome. We definitely should try and arrange a reunion lunch, at some point," Maggie smiles. "The old _News Night_ crew, everyone."

"Yeah! Don't you want to wait till Jim gets back though? Where are you guys living?"

"I'm sorry?" Maggie feels herself go even paler than she normally is.

Tess immediately recognizes that something is wrong, and trips over her words. "I'm — I thought — since Jim is coming back from the Middle East that — and you were coming back from Georgia — I figured —"

"Jim is coming back? Jim was overseas?" She would like to faint now, thank you.

"Yeah. … I was talking to Elise, on the international desk? She's moving to just work with Andrea and Matt and Caterina, and Jim's ... taking her role. And since you're coming back the same month I thought that the two of —"

"You thought we decided to come back to New York together," she puts together, and shakes her head. "No. I didn't even know he was abroad, let alone coming back. Let alone working at ACN, actually."

"Oh," Tess says. "I'm sorry. I thought … I hoped … I didn't know. I'm … yeah," Tess smiles, awkwardly.

"It's fine," she says too-brightly. She knows her voice is all strangley and high-pitched. She looks at Charlotte, who is staring at her curiously. "I have to get back to this meeting, but let's grab lunch, yeah?"

Twenty minutes later, she marches past Don's secretary into his office. "So Jim is coming back?" she asks.

Don drops what he is looking at. "Alright, in my defense, I was going to tell you that today, in the newsroom, surrounded by a lot of people. I had it planned."

She puts her hands on her hips. "Seriously?" she yells. "What? Were you were afraid I might _handle it badly_?" She starts pacing and yelling. "I mean, honestly, Don, I asked for _one fucking thing_. Do you remember that one thing?"

"You asked not to work with Jim."

"I asked not to work with Jim! And then what do you do? You fucking hire him back too? Is this some sort of … set-up? You and Sloan and Mac and Will get together over an expensive bottle of red wine and toast your fabulous lives and think, god, whose life is non-fabulous? Who can we shower with benevolence? I know! Let's try to _Parent Trap_ Maggie!"

"Which one of you is a twin?" Don asks, confused.

"Focus!" she yells. "Did you bring me back to New York with the ulterior motive of bringing Jim and I back into contact?"

"_No_," he says, standing. "I asked you to come back because I'd seen what you had done at CNN and I was impressed and I needed someone at 8 p.m. A few weeks after you agreed to come produce _News Night_, Jim independently got into contact with Mac to see if there was a place for him stateside. His contract as a foreign producer for ACN stipulates that after two re-ups, he's allowed to request a transfer to the U.S. that we have to grant. There were two separate decisions here, Maggie, that coincidentally happened way too fucking close to one another. And I knew one would hurt you, and I'm sorry, but let me be clear: My options with Jim were either open ACN up for a lawsuit or lose Jim as a reporter and producer at ACN. Neither of those were too good, _plus_ we had a job that actually would fit him really well."

She stops. "Does he know that I came back?"

"Yes."

"Did he know before or after he asked to come back?"

"After. It was his choice."

"You had multiple options with me too, you know. You could have let _me_ make _my_ choice."

"By the time he asked to come back, you had been hired and had purchased the new apartment. I didn't want to put you in a position where you felt you had to back out of a job but then were obligated to move back and job hunt. I thought that would be worse. If it was a better option, you still have it, though I would prefer you stayed on and worked here. I _am_ sorry, if that's worth anything. It shouldn't be, but I am. But you have a choice now."

She gets that it's a tough spot for Don, and she's slightly mollified by his apology. But still.

"You're the twins, by the way." Her tone and inflection are lighter, and Don visibly relaxes.

"What?"

"You're the twins. You're Hayley Mills, or Lindsey Lohan. I'm the mom. Or the dad, but mom would obviously make more sense, don't you think?"

"Maggie, I could not fucking care less," he says, rolling his eyes but smiling. "Are you good to stay on?"

"I'm not happy about it, that's for sure," she sighs. "When does he start?"

"Around the first of the month."

"Great," she says, her voice rueful. "Can't wait."

"He'll be on a different floor."

"I liked it better when he was on a different continent, personally," she sighs again, and runs a hand through her hair. "Anyways. We do need to talk about the permanent EP and the anchor. Are you and Charlie talking to anyone yet?"

"We took Michael Brown and Cal Levitt out to lunch this week. Cal seems more interested."

"Yeah, but the most anchoring he's done is what, a year at a weekend desk?"

"And subbing at NBC. I know him; he's a good guy. He could get it done."

"He's awfully young."

"He's got charisma. He's good to production staff, too. Considerate."

"What do their focus group numbers look like?"

"We're doing tracking on them both this week."

"Too bad Sloan won't come back. You two could be, like, a primetime power couple."

He shrugs. "It works for us if I don't start my day till nine or nine-thirty, and then work late, and she starts early and ends early. Plus, she would rather _just_ focus on economics with some politics and IR on the side. And daytime gives her a good schedule on semesters where she wants to teach."

"She doesn't want to, or she's telling you she doesn't want to?"

His jaw twitches. "If Sloan wanted to do primetime, she knows she could tell me."

"I'm just saying -"

"I know what you're saying. It's pretty fucking presumptuous. I know my wife, alright?"

"So Cal Levitt it is?"

"Depends on the numbers and the cost."

"What about Elliot?"

"I'll take it under consideration," he says, in a voice that says he absolutely won't be considering it. "How is today's show shaping up?"

"The president's trip to Russia is going to be the lead story, 2020 candidates making the trek to Iowa, and Capitol Hill obstructionism on the student-loan reup."

"Where's Somalia?"

"Mentioned in the teaser but top of the B."

"Swap it with the Iowa story; we don't need to be fueling the next presidential cycle yet. Let's go talk to the graphics department. They've gotta be updated on where we are."

The rest of the day is a lesson in the seventy-three thousand things that a senior producer or an EP is expected to do on a daily basis. Somehow, Don manages to show her everything in between of a series of mysterious, exhausting-sounding meetings. She headsets up for the show, but it's all Don and Will: They've been working together long enough that, even if Don isn't Mac, there's a huge level of trust. So far from those 13 weeks when Don EP-ed years ago. As she's heading out for the night, she makes sure to thank all the junior producers.

"Margaret," Will calls through the newsroom, surprising her a little. She'd assumed he had already left, to go home to Mac. Don had had his coat on starting in the F-block and had disappeared by the time the credit music stopped.

"Hey. I didn't know you were still here," she says, slipping into his office.

"I like to decompress before taking off," he says, holding up a cigarette.

"Is your smoke detector still 'broken'?" she asks, gesturing toward the ceiling.

"Yeah, you know, I just keep forgetting to put in that maintenance request," he rolls his eyes. "Can't an old man have one vice?"

"An old man can. Not so sure about a new father, though."

"If I promise to buy a patch before she arrives, will you let it drop? God, all you women are the same."

"How dare we care about your health," she says. "Good show tonight."

"It was." He flicks ash into the tray. "You did good."

"Thanks. This is a good staff."

He smiles, chortles a little, and says, "How was your first day back?"

"Good, I thought. How did the show run?"

"Ran well. You like the kids?"

"Yeah. Everyone seems pretty nice … Competent."

"They're young."

"So were we, once."

"You're still young."

"Not that young," she straightens. "I was going to go meet Neal for dinner, and I'm a little late, so I should probably …"

"Of course," he says. He looks like he doesn't want to say anything, but he finally relents. "Mac told me that Jim is coming back stateside."

"Yeah, seems like everyone got told before I did," she chirps.

"I didn't say it was fair, but —"

"It was shitty timing. I know. Don's explained it."

He stares at her for a while, then says. "Well, at any rate, Mac's very happy to have you back in New York. She wants to know if you want to come to a painting party this Saturday."

"A painting party?"

"We … have to finish the bedroom. It's not painted yet, so Mac wants people to come over and, you know … paint."

"Will there be pizza?"

"Pizza?"

"You give pizza to people that help you do house crap."

"Oh. Sure, if you want pizza, I'll buy you pizza."

"Pepperoni, if you can," she says. "Mac's the only one happy at my return?"

He smiles, one of those enigmatic, deadly serious _Will_ smiles. "It's good to have you home, Maggie."

She smiles, too. "Good night, Will."

When she gets outside of the building, Neal is waiting for her. "Oh, my god," she says. "I thought we were meeting at the diner?"

"We were. And then Tess called to say she'd told you about Jim. So I decided, fuck the diner, let's go somewhere with real drinks." She grins.

Three sake bombs, two shots of sake and one glass of wine later, she interrupts, "Have you _heard_ from Jim? Do you know why he decided to come back now? When did he … When did he even leave New York?" She tries to keep her chuckle in the "my life is ironic" territory and to the right of the "I'm unhinged and crazy" line.

He shakes his head, flips a piece of sushi and rolls it, like a wheel, around his plate. "Nope. He left about a week after you did and I don't think anyone's seen him in person since. What happened, with the two of you?"

She sighs and dunks a chunk of maki into soy sauce. She's quiet, for a long, long moment. She's never really discussed the end of the relationship, hell, the implosion of her entire life, with anyone. There's just … nothing really to say. Finally, she says, "After … everything, after I got out of the hospital, we just … we could barely be in the same room. I was depressed, he felt … guilty, and we just … we couldn't talk. About any of it. Then one night I found out that he met Hallie, his ex, you remember Hallie?" Neal nods. "I found out he met Hallie after work, and we just … We had a big fight. I don't think … I don't think anything happened, I really don't. They just met for a drink. But we had one of those fights where you," she flashes back, momentarily, to the things she said and the things he said, "one of those fights you can't walk back from. He stormed out. I kind of get the feeling he crashed at Mac's or Don's, but I don't know why. Neither of them have ever said anything."

"He crashed at my place, actually."

"Oh," she says, struck. "How … How was he?"

"Incoherent," Neal says. "He called me from a bar, I picked him up, brought him home. He threw up, cried a little, and then slept it off."

"Oh. I didn't … I didn't know that," she brushes hair out of her eyes. "Thanks … Thanks for that. For taking care of him."

"Of course," he says. "I would have done the same for you, you know."

"I — Thanks. I know, but thanks," she smiles. "Anyways, I woke up the next morning and I just felt there was absolutely nothing left for me in New York. It was just this … I can't even … After the accident, and the baby, and that, the only thing I wanted was to be out of New York. It was just so clear, you know? Down to my bones. So I called up Amy Anderson, and she had something at CNN, so I went down to interview and … Yeah. That was it," she tries to smile, but it is painful and she thinks it probably looks more like a grimace. She takes a sip of the beer again and mentally composes herself. "And now four years later, I am back, and so is he, and I'm surrounded by toddlers. Because … God has a sense of humor," she raises a glass as a toast, which Neal doesn't respond to. She sets her glass down. "So. That's what happened."

"Did you ever talk about it?"

"No, there was nothing left to say," she runs a hand through her hair then leans on her elbow. "Anyways. Mariah. Where's she work?"

It's a crap-tastically busy week: Don is out hustling new anchors most days, leaving her to deal with, well, everything. There's a volcanic eruption in Italy and wildfires in California kill seven and nearly shut down the city of San Francisco, and Terri's team in D.C. is still high-maintenance and Aaron, the new 10 o'clock, keeps pestering her because he wants to be moved to eight. By Thursday, Don has handed the reins completely over to her, and it's a pretty fucking awesome feeling to steer the ship herself. She feels competent, confident. Empowered. Charlotte and Rachel, one of the other associate producers, both ask her for career advice over coffee Friday morning.

Of course, at the same time, her apartment is still a hot, unpacked mess, and she ends most evenings on the couch with a bottle of red. She sleeps only three or four hours a night, brings home piles of work to review, and inevitably ends up googling Jim around 2 or 3 in the morning. She finds frustratingly little — he has not updated his Facebook page in over three years. When that doesn't work, she goes on runs through the city at ridiculously early hours, and then goes into work at six in the morning.

On Saturday afternoon, as promised, she shows at Will and Mac's Midtown apartment. It's new, but shiny and sleek and TV-filled in a way that instantly recalls both of their previous apartments. She tries to imagine a three-year-old girl toddling around and she can't.

"Wonderful, we're so glad to have you," Mac says, kissing her cheek as she enters.

"No problem. I brought beer, since Will promised pizza," she holds up the six-pack. "I like the new place."

"Thanks. We wanted more room and to be closer to the studio, but I'm afraid it's not very kid-friendly yet," Mac says. "Don and Sloan are coming, they should be here soon."

"No, we're here," Sloan says, as they exit the elevator. "We're all here, in fact." She turns to see what Sloan means: Don has Max by the hand, while Sloan is pushing a double stroller.

"Oh no! I thought Aunt Lily was going to babysit?" Mac says, as Max bounds into her arms. "Not that I'm upset at seeing these dears, of course." She plants a big kiss on him. He looks freaking _adorable_: a blue polo shirt, a fishing hat, orange cargo shorts and Converse.

"Aunt Lily has to serve people coffee," Max says, jumping down. "So Mama and Daddy brought us and movies." He pulls something, presumably a DVD, out of Sloan's bag and runs away, yelling "Will! I'm here to visit you!"

"Lily got called into a shift at the coffee shop, somebody didn't show up," Don explains, setting down three huge bags. Maggie wonders who the hell Aunt Lily is.

"Surely you two pay more for an afternoon of babysitting than some eco-friendly independent coffeehouse in Red Hook."

"Oh, we do," Sloan says, a grim smile on her face. "But that doesn't matter when you're sleeping with your manager. That falls under other goods and services which frankly, we're not going to provide."

"It's tough being twenty-two," Don tries, albeit pretty half-heartedly, as he unstraps Twin One and hands her to Sloan.

"No, it's tough trying to live your Hannah Horvath phase," Sloan says, setting the girl down. She's a gorgeous, smiling baby, slightly more Sloan than Don, but with fine, medium-brown hair twisted into two braids and clipped with yellow barrettes, fair skin, and light green eyes. She's wearing a pale yellow, collared sundress with pastel macaron cookies dancing all over it, dusty pink leather flats, and a teal cardigan.

"I'm afraid I don't know who that is," Mac says.

"That's a good thing," Sloan smiles. "Annie, wait a sec," she directs at her daughter, who had begun to toddle off after her brother. So that must be Susannah. Don unstraps the second, who has to be Emerson, from the stroller. Emerson looks almost exactly like Sloan — hazel eyes and tan coloring and all — though with slightly less angular features, and she does have Don's nose and (maybe) chin. Her curly, brown-black hair is twisted up in two tiny, puffy ponytails, and she's glammed up compared to the princessiness of her twin: She's wearing hot-purple leggings and a black tank with white dalmation spots, blue jelly sandals and lime green barrettes. "The girls need to go down for a nap. Is it OK if we put them in the guest room then?"

"Absolutely," Mac says.

"No," Emerson says, clearly. "No nap."

Sloan stares at her daughter, snorts, and exchanges a quick look with Don. Silently, the two of them play two hands of 'Rock, Paper, Scissors,' which Sloan loses in straight sets. Don gloats quietly as Sloan turns to the toddler. "Em, let's go for some quiet time. You, Annie, and I will read some books first."

"No," Emerson repeats.

"I have _Pigeon_," Sloan says. It's extraordinary, really, to watch Sloan. She's not changing her tone or using baby-talk or talking down to the toddler in any way — she's still so _Sloan_ — but she's got the hang of it. She's a mom.

"_Piggie_?" Emerson asks, clearly reconsidering.

"Got that too." Sloan pulls both books out and Emerson claps. Seizing an opportunity, she scoops Emerson onto one hip. Don helps her get Susannah situated on the other hip, and she sashays down the hall.

"So we actually need to put Max down for two hours too or he'll be a beast at bedtime," Don says sheepishly.

"I feel like a hostel," Mac remarks, but Don just shrugs and heads into the living room. "You want to help me finish setting up the bedroom for painting? It's down this way."

"Sure," Maggie says. "What color - what color did you go with?"

"We eventually settled on yellow," MacKenzie says, pushing open the door to a large, very clean room, with baseboards mostly taped up and paint cans nestled on old sheets. "Easy to paint over if it's not popular." She stares at the wall critically. "I'm not quite sure what I'm doing, here."

Maggie pops open a paint can and inspects the pale lemon chiffon. It's far too close to the shade she and Jim had picked out, though she doubts Mac ever knew that. She takes a deep breath."This is a good color."

"I thought, since the room was sunny, you know. Yellow."

"Alright, what do we got?" Sloan says, coming in behind them and stopping when she sees the empty room. "Tell me you're buying furniture." Maggie notices for the first time that Sloan's chambray shirt and hunter-green jeans are probably not the best painting clothes. Actually, Mac's clothes look dry-clean only, too. And actually, she's wearing the only pair of jeans she owns that cost more than $68. She wonders how this will go down.

"Of course we are," Will growls, as he and Don enter. Both of them are in flannel shirts over T-shirts, so she suspects they'll be doing the bulk of the painting. "It's arriving tomorrow."

"Good. Don't try to set it up yourself. Learn from our mistakes," Sloa replies.

"That was because _someone_ was too busy correcting discrepancies between the English and Japanese instructions to, you know, _read_ the English ones out loud!"

"What's the difference between a Phillips' head and standard screwdriver, Bob Vila?" Sloan smirks. "I'm not saying I'm much better. Though I do know the differences between the screwdrivers, that was just an example. But a crib we built would have collapsed the minute we set a baby in it. And Will, you're many things, but you're not handy. Don't do it. No macho bullshit. Just hire someone."

"I grew up in Nebraska," Will points out.

"It's been a while, is all I'm saying," Sloan shrugs.

"Alright!" Mac says. "We've got a lot of yellow paint and not a lot of time. All the walls need at least two coats, I think. I primed them yesterday so we're good to go. Maggie, Sloan, why don't you start by taking the angled brushes and doing a line around the baseboards. Billy, you do the same thing up top on the ladder. Don and I will start with the rollers on the rest of the wall. Come on, people. Let's focus. We've got a job to do."

It takes some time to get started — there's an argument over which brushes to use, and Will critiques both Sloan's and Mac's painting technique. Max comes in twice, and Don chases him back to the couch, staying with him much longer the second time. But soon enough Will's put on some Rolling Stones, and they power through the first coat.

They take five minutes to sit on the floor and watch the paint dry, beers in hand, but get back to work quickly. They've got a rhythm going, so the second coat takes less time than the first, even though Don and Sloan have to start alternating popping in on the kids, who after they wake up start playing with toys stashed in Mac's guest room. But the walls are finally sticky-shiny with the yellow paint, and Maggie admits that it will look pretty good once there is real furniture in the room and a little girl to play in it. "Pizza time?" she asks hopefully. She's starved.

"I did promise you pepperoni," Will smiles.

Sloan checks her phone, but before she can object, Don holds up a hand and says, "No way. If someone else is paying for pizza, we're staying."

Sloan rolls her eyes, but says, "You can take the man-boy out of the frat house, but 18 years later, you can't take the frat house out of the man. Can you get the kind with broccoli on top?"

"Sloan, that does not count as pizza," Will says with an appropriate amount of disgust.

"I think the appropriate response is, 'Sure, friend whom I dragged 40 blocks downtown to spend all Saturday painting a nursery — despite the fact that I make seven figures and am perfectly capable of hiring a guy to do this job — I will buy you _whatever_ type of pizza you desire.'" Will rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but goes to dial. "Get a side of pasta with tomato sauce, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And a spinach salad."

"If the next thing you say is a request for an acai berry what-the-fuck, Sabbith, I can't even …"

"I was going to say, let's get the gigantic chocolate-chip cookies too. But an acai berry what-the-fuck also sounds tasty." Will rolls his eyes again, and starts talking with whomever is taking his order.

"Mac?" Max says from the doorway. "Can I get out the pots? Anna and I want to play."

"Sure, sweetie," she says. "How do you like the color in here? This will be Nora's room?"

"My friend Nora's come home?" he asks excitedly, turning to his dad.

"Not yet, buddy. In about … sixteen days. We can make a calendar when we get home."

"Oh, okay," he says, then turns to Maggie. "I'm sorry. I forgot you."

"He means —" Sloan jumps in quickly.

"I got it," Maggie smiles, then kneels down to Max's eye level. "That's okay. My name's Maggie. I work with your daddy and Will, and I've been friends with your mom and Mac for a long time."

"You are at ACN?"

"Yup."

"Are you talent or production?"

"I'm production. Like Mac and your dad. I work on Will's show."

"Do you want to come play with us?"

"The food's en route," Will says, hanging up the phone. "Should be here in 45 minutes. They didn't have any acai berry anything, sorry Sloan." Sloan shrugs, as if to say, _it was worth a shot_.

"Well, then we got some playtime," Maggie smiles at him.

"Maggie, you don't —"

"It's cool, Sloan," she says as reassurance. "Really." And that's how Maggie finds herself playing an involved cooking game with Max, who keeps getting mad when one of his two sisters starts using an upturned pot as a drum, in Mac's guest bedroom. Eight weeks ago, she would not have said this would have ever happened.

"Guys?" Sloan says from the doorframe. "I hate to interrupt, but the food is here. We need to put away the toys and wash our hands."

"Do we have to?" Max asks, picking up stuff anyways, as Emerson hands her a pot and says, "Here go."

"Yes, we do. It's dinner."

"You're a good player," Max says as he gathers the remaining objects.

She grins, despite herself. It feels like a pretty big compliment. "Thank you," she says. "You're a good player too."

"Thanks for playing with them," Sloan says as the kids run down the hallway with the pots. "You really didn't have to. They only even came today because their aunt flaked."

"No. I … I liked it. They're good kids, Sloan. And …" she hesitates. She wants to say, _it's a good reminder that not every child I come into contact with dies_. But while that's probably true, she knows that's harsh humor about a former colleague's child. And, to be fair, Max Keefer _could_ die, in a freak accident, or something. It would be terrible and she would never say it out loud, but it's true. Those things happened, she knows all too well. "I don't know. It was fun. They're good kids."

"They're something, for sure," Sloan smiles, and hesitates. "You know — Maggie. I know — I'm _guessing_ — things are probably a little … overwhelming now. With everything, and Jim coming back, which I'm sure you weren't expecting and can't be too happy about," Sloan suddenly shakes her head, clearly wondering if she's said too much. "What I'm trying to say is, that if you ever want to talk, I'm available. I'm usually not great with advice, as you know, but I'm a pretty good listener. And I buy expensive wine."

She laughs. "Thank you. I'm good — I promise — but thanks."

Sloan doesn't look like she quite believes it, but then Don yells for her and it's dinner time and it's chaotic, in a way completely different but not entirely dissimilar to a newsroom. It's a production to be managed, just like a broadcast. Being around these people again feels like starting to exercise after having avoided the gym for eight months — it's like activating muscle memory, but you have to go slowly because your body has changed and there are new machines to use. And she feels just a little bit outside her body. But it's also warm, and familiar.

**Don and Sloan load their children into the strollers right after dinner, since it's late and Susannah almost fell asleep in her food. Mac and Will make her stay later and drink a beer on the terrace, the sounds of the city floating underneath them, but after a while their kindness becomes almost too unbearable, and she deftly shoots down their protests to her excuses about leaving. On her way out, she stops by the newly painted bedroom one more time. It's bathed in twilight, waiting expectantly for its occupant. Maggie blinks away memories, takes another deep breath, and leaves.**

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**If you made it this far, mazel! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thx! ~ xx Jo**


	4. Chapter Three -- Mac

Happy new-episode day! Another chapter update, way earlier than anticipated. This takes us on a detour all the way to Pakistan, but we'll return to New York shortly, and will focus more on the work/life balance of the characters. Most of this takes place in the past — both when Jim and Mac were in Pakistan pre-NewsNight, and before the start of this story as one is also shorter (ie, more readable!) than the last one. Thanks to everyone for sticking through this. There may be some time (and some rewrites) before the last chapter. I want to get everything synced to s2, more or less.

Oh, and the thing, at the end? Had to happen. I promise. I'd love to hear people's thoughts on everything.

_"__Nothing was irrevocable; everything was within reach... I could make promises to myself and to other people and there would be all the time in the world to keep them. I could stay up all night and make mistakes, and none of it would count."_  
_-Joan Didion_

* * *

_Mac_

_June 18_

Along the long line of her career, someone — she forgets who, exactly, but it probably was a colleague or a lover or, most likely, a man who was both — had given MacKenzie Morgan McHale a camera and taught her how to use it. She would never pretend to be a _talented_ photographer, but she was competent, for an amateur. Will certainly liked her work, and had turned a few of her photos into prints that adorned his office walls. They weren't anything fancy, mostly grays and whites. She knew she was much more adept, technically speaking, at landscapes, but taking photos of people was her favorite.

She doesn't have much these days, so her most popular subjects are by default the Keefer children. Once upon a time, though, in her heady first days abroad in Pakistan, lost and angry and confused at everything with Will and Brian, she had stumbled into photographing children playing in the streets. Cliche, she knew, perhaps even a bit paternalistic. But she liked the juxtapositions — these children were often surrounded by war and hunger and oppressed in sometimes-horrific ways, but were still joyful. They still raced in the streets and animated objects into dolls by wrapping them in blankets and shared apples as they gossiped on street curbs.

She didn't spend much time in the country — she was mostly embedded with various troops, across the border in Afghanistan, and would only fly back when something was happening. When she was in the country, she was usually in Islamabad, living in a sterile efficiency around the corner from the American embassy. The Marriott bombing hadn't happened yet, but the city was wary, dangerous and slightly edgy with unrest. It was as itchy and ill-tempered as she was, and she simply couldn't handle her father's or the government's warnings. Although Jim urged her to stay close, she would go wandering the streets with only her cell phone, her thumb idly passing over the numbers it would take to dial Will, apologize, try and work things out.

On one of those sojourns, she stumbled onto a square building, surrounded by a high, chain-link fence and with two rows of windows running across it. It's shabby, but very clean. It's nondescript and she would have passed it without blinking, save for the children in the tiny yard. It's an orphanage.

She began to pass it regularly, at first just stopping to smile and then to converse in broken Urdu with the children; eventually, a young woman invited her in. Her name was Zahra, and she is slim and motherly and old and young at the same time. She cared for the children.

Mac flew in and out, but whenever she was in Islamabad, she visited the orphanage. She brought them supplies and watched them color and fantasized, briefly, about saying fuck it to everything, adopting a daughter, and going back to New York or London to raise her into a fabulously independent woman.

She dropped those thoughts almost immediately.

A few months later, at a draggy British Embassy party that she only went to because Jim wanted to flirt with a cultural attache, the U.S. deputy counsel introduced her to Ayeesha Khan, a matronly woman in her early sixties, who carried herself simply and with great dignity. She was wearing a printed cotton dress and flat, worn sandals. Her feet were cracked and her toenails yellowed. "Mrs. Khan and her husband run the largest private philanthropy in the country," Harris explained.

"Oh, that's quite wonderful," Mac said, feigning interest. She'd been attending these parties since the age of six, and knew the questions and the answers by heart. "What is it that you do?"

"Health care, mostly. We work with mothers to get prenatal care, children to get vaccines, our elders to get proper medication. Hospitals, drug-treatment centers. And orphanages, of course. We ensure that orphans are well taken care of. We oversee a network of cradles, into which parents can leave children they cannot care for."

"Oh," Mac said. "There's an orphanage, that I visit sometimes. The children are quite bright, friendly. It's in Aapbara."

"Oh, yes, that is one of ours," Mrs. Khan smiled. "What do you think of it?"

Mrs. Khan was the most interesting person at this deadly boring party, and they talked for the rest of the night, well past Jim's departure with the attache. Mrs. Khan was an obstetrician, trained in London before returning to her home country, falling in love with a businessman, and choosing to live a spartan life while investing everything they had in charity. The two of struck up an unlikely friendship, meeting for chai whenever Mac was in Islamabad.

The fleeting idea that she should adopt a child grew stronger. She could do it, she knew. She had means and money and, hell, she'd thrown away multiple shots at happiness, so this could be a fresh start. She had never wanted children, but now was terrified of dying alone, and that curdled into an unquantifiable _yearn_. Confronting life and death on the regular also probably has somthing to do with it. She brought it up at tea with Mrs. Khan one day, when she was recuperating after her stabbing.

Her new friend was quiet. "A child is not a talisman, something for you to take back to New York as a reminder of your time abroad," she pointed out, gesturing toward Mac's middle, thick with bandages.

"It's not that," Mac insisted, wetting her lips. "I've lived for myself for so long, and I'm probably not going to settle down with a partner. I've lost those chances. I'm not going to become a mother the typical way." She did still have time — she was 35 at the time, plenty of women conceived after 35 — but she knew with a bleak certainty that that wasn't going to happen. She didn't believe in god, exactly, but she believed in karma and paying it forward and consequences, and she knew she had to live with hers. "I can be a good mother. The child would be abandoned, and I am alone. We could keep each other company. Two drifters, off to see the world."

Mrs. Khan was quiet. "Yes. Unfortunately, though, Pakistani law prohibits children being adopted outside their religious faith, and considers all children Muslim unless proven otherwise. Even if you could get the courts to allow it — and they might, for you — there is no getting around that."

She returned to New York months later, the idea buried. She tried to keep in touch with Mrs. Khan, but truthfully, life happened. She and Will sorted their nonsense out and married in Italy, and while that was huge and life-changing and important, her mother's sudden death, at 76, was what really spun her off her axis. She and Will flew back to London, kissed cheeks, and listened to people murmur, "_Maureen was a lovely woman."_ She sent Will back to New York, over his protestations, the day after the funeral, but stayed with her father for an extra two weeks.

She had wanted to persuade him to come to New York, but ended up just packing her mother's things and shuffling him around town. She kept pushing him, though, and on the last day, when selfish wheedling (_I miss you and I love you and I want you nearby_) and practical assertions (_you're getting older and you'll need help_) both failed, she finally asked, "aren't you scared?"

Startled, he asked, "Of what?"

"Of being alone! Of ..."

"Of what, MacKenzie? Of dying alone?" he laughs.

Yes. That is exactly it. But she couldn't verbalize it, so she just nods. It was a striking and cold fear she had never experienced before.

"My dear girl," he said, clapping his hands on her upper arms and making her feel like she was 16 again, dragging her father out of the UN General Assembly to reprimand her for smoking in the school bathrooms. "No matter where in this wide world you are, I _always_ have you."

She headed back to New York a week later (alone, obviously), the conversation brooding on her mind. When she finally got Sloan, who was in a raggedy, hellish, hectic phase following the twins' birth, to come out to tea with her, the first thing she blurted out was, "Are you ever afraid of dying alone?"

Sloan, who looked beyond dead-eyed — honestly, nobody in that house got any sleep that first year after the twins' birth, and on top of that, Sloan had to be pert and perfect for television every day — chewed on a swizzle stick contemplatively. "Yes," she finally said, and Mac could tell she was queuing up some self-deprecation. "Because if I die alone, that means Don and the kids are dead — probably because I've killed them — or I've driven them all away. Which is definitely a pretty real possibility," she cocks her head. "I bet I could calculate the odds on that. Give me a sec."

"Sloan," Mac groaned, grabbing her friend's forearm to get her to focus. "I'm serious."

Sloan shrugged self-consciously. "I don't," she said. "Is this about your mom?"

"No. Yes. No. I don't know," Mac covered her face with her hands before looking up. "I suppose it is, at the most Freudian level."

"No, it's about your mom at all the levels. And you aren't alone. You have Will."

"Who is 13 years older than me, smokes like a chimney, considers walking to pour another beer working out, and eats like a 19-year-old frat boy. I love him, but he's going to die first, Sloan."

"I wouldn't put it past Will to live to 105 just to be a jackass, but you have tons of friends. You're the type of person who makes an impression, Mac. You won't be a hermit, if he … dies first. Can we not talk about Will dying? This is weird."

"When I was in London I tried to get my father to come back with me. He's 81, my mother died at 76, surely he hasn't much time. But he said no. And then he said that no matter where he was, he wouldn't die alone, because he has me."

Sloan looked confused. "OK? Yes, that's true. So what."

"So what if Will dies and leaves me alone? And then I die and people are sad for a day, and then they move on, because they have _families_ and _lives_ to attend to!"

The look of confusion on Sloan's face deepened. "Do you want _kids_, Kenzie? Because let me tell you, they are a _lot_ of effort to go through in order to have someone who you presume will want to take care of you in 30 years."

"No! Yes. Maybe. I don't know!"

"Have you talked this over with Will? You know, checked, like, hey honey, I'm thinking we should have children. Don't worry, it's just for after you're dead."

"Sloan. Why did you and Don have kids?"

"A 25-hour-long flight messed up my birth control on my honeymoon."

"You're going to have to stop saying that when Max gets old enough to understand. You two were going to have a baby eventually, don't lie. I know you."

"I don't know. It was just … when we were dating, when we were talking about maybe getting married, I just thought, 'yes. I want to have children with this man.' And I had never thought that before, so we ran with it."

"That. Yes. I never had that thought. Ever. Not even with Will, not even the first time around," Mac shifted. "I never saw the need. And then, with my mother … I miss that dynamic. Already, I miss being in a mother-daughter relationship," she sighed as a shudder overtook her body. "So no, it's not about creating a new life or wondering whether this little person has my nose or Will's lips or any of that nonsense. I want to ... matter in that way to someone."

Sloan's eyes filled with tears, and she reached out to Mac. "I think you need to talk to Will."

Will had gone ashen the first time she brought it up, later that week. "Mac — I'm too old," he said. "And where would we put it?"

"We do have a few extra bedrooms. And Picasso fathered children into his eighties."

"_Fathered_, not _parented_."

"You like kids."

"I love em. You know what the best part about them is? You hand them back to their parents when you're done playing with them. Bonus points if you get them sugared up first."

She stared at him for a second, before climbing into his lap. "Listen to me, Will McAvoy," she said. "You will never, _ever_, be anything like your father. I know that in my bones. So don't let that factor into your thoughts on this," she kissed him softly. "I'm only telling you that once, alright?"

They had tabled it for awhile, several months really, as they produced a show and ate takeout in their underwear and slept in till eleven on the weekends and watched Sloan and Don struggle through that year with the newborn twins. But every so often, they would discuss it, lobbing hypotheticals back and forth like oranges. _Are we young enough? Would we move? What would we name him or her, if there was a him or her? What if we put a nursery in ACN? _Everything was still firmly in the future tense, but the feeling, the thought, of wanting an adoption was an ever-present ache that she didn't know how to treat.

Until one day when she got a call from Mrs. Khan out of the blue. "Oh, my goodness. How … how are you?" Mac asked.

"I am well," Mrs. Khan hesitated. "I know it has been far too long, but I am calling for a professional matter. You remember your orphanage, in Aapbara?"

"Of course," she said, wondering if she perhaps needed to write a check.

"Wonderful. I had hoped so. They've just had a young girl come into their care, a legal orphan. She is almost three years old. Her mother and father both died in a car accident; there are no other relatives. However, they were both Christian, which makes adopting her out quite problematic. Then I remembered my conversation with you, and I thought I would give you a call. Her name is Naureen." When Mac heard the name — so close to _Maureen_ — she gasped. "Yes. Let me talk with my husband, but yes. Absolutely."

And that is how Mac finds herself, on a humid summer's day, setting off for Pakistan by herself, feeling a bit like this whole situation has snowballed and she never really made a decision. She and Will both made the gear-shift, agreed that if they were going to do it, they were going to do it right — promotions would get them home in time, a larger apartment would give them the space to raise her properly. Both were mutual; if anything, Will almost seems more game — more fearful, but more game — than she does.

But Mac has yet to consciously take her thoughts from a _what-if_ to a _this is life now_. She spent all this time and money and effort petitioning the government to allow the adoption, and she's still not sure. She's not sure how she will feel when she gets to Islamabad, when she sees Naureen for the first time, when she takes her home. This is a person, not a baby she can train. Will Nora like her? Are she and Will equipped emotionally to become parents, to step forward in place of two dead ones that the girl likely still remembers? There are two many questions. The plan is for her to spend two weeks in Pakistan, the first week with Nora still living in the orphanage and Mac seeing her for progressively longer periods; the second with them both in the hotel and spending their days together, preparing to head home. She hopes this will ease the transition.

The first meeting is anticlimactic, really – Naureen has no idea what is going on. She's a calm toddler, with quiet wide eyes that seem to see everything and betray an old soul. Her hair is thick and chin-length, and she's got short, neat bangs cut exactly above her eyebrows. Mac wonders if the girl will get along with the boisterous Max Keefer, who is really the only age-appropriate playmate they have lined up, but whose (entirely apt) nickname is Wild Thing. Nora invites Mac to play whatever game she's playing, but Mac's hopeless at following along with her chattering in Urdu. She thinks maybe it is a tea party? When she leaves, though, the girl hugs her and clutches the soft blonde bear she'd brought.

Her visits get longer, and she's relieved to find that by the end of the week they have a patchwork way of communicating with each other. Zahra explains to Naureen that she'll be going to live with MacKenzie in a new home now, and at first Nora seems fine with that. They go back to the hotel and Skype Will, who can't understand a damn thing Nora tries to say, but his bluster and the screen distract and entertain her enough. The first night is tear-filled, and Naureen even has a few nightmares. But they make it through together, and while Mac doesn't feel like a mother, at all, she certainly feels accomplished.

On day two, she's trying to wrestle Nora out the door for some shopping when she gets an email from Jim. _Mac — heard you're in Islamabad. I'm actually here for one more day. Would love to have lunch, if you're free. _Nora is crying incoherently, and there is nothing more she would love than to see a familiar face.

She hasn't seen Jim in years. Shortly after he left New York in an acrimonious flurry, she had followed him to Saudi Arabia, tried to bully him back, and failed. He needed to do his own thing, and she got that. He and Maggie weren't her and Will, he'd said. The accident and the pregnancy and the grief was immensely more complicated, more sorrowful, and they needed to be apart in order to survive. She'd accepted, recognizing that the only way to ever get him back was to let him go.

Now he looks taller, but she assumes that means he's lost a bit of weight. His hair is closely cropped and he's dressed in a loose tan shirt and khakis, like what he wore when they were covering Afghanistan together. He's got a scruffy beard, which looks so startlingly old on his baby face that it makes her blink, hard. They meet at a park, so that Nora can run around in a familiar area and she can speak with Jim as they sip tea. Her face crinkles into a wide grin when she sees him.

"Jimmy," she says, hugging him tight. He fairly sinks into her. "Jimmy, Jim, Jim. I am so happy to see you."

"Good to see you too," he whispers against her neck. He pulls back, his eyes bright and haunted. "God, it's been … It's been forever."

"Well, that's going to change soon," she smiles, patting his cheek. So scruffy. "I didn't know you were in Islamabad. I'm glad I got to see you."

"Chasing one final lead. I fly out tomorrow. New York two days later." She wants to know more about what he's reporting on — maybe she can use it — but then he gestures towards the playing children. "Which one's yours?"

She scans the playground, then points to where Nora is happily making a sandcastle with another girl. "There."

"Nora, right?"

"Naureen, yeah."

"How's it going?"

"It … is," she smiles. "I can't really make a judgement on it yet. I worry about the flight home. And, you know, the rest of her life."

"Is Will getting excited to meet her?"

"I think so. It'll be better when it's not hypothetical. I think he's a little terrified, personally."

Jim shrugs. "You two pseudo-parented half the _News Night_ crew, and we turned out great. Questionably sane, but great. You guys will do the same with her."

She cocks her head. "Not sure I did so great with any of you, actually."

He shrugged. "Well, Neal turned out alright, it sounds like. But, yeah. Some of your advice … Kind of questionable."

"'Gather ye rosebuds,' was _great_ advice," she says, before she fully realizes what she is saying. "I mean …"

"I was talking about the time you suggested I go with you to Afghanistan and I got shot in the ass, but sure. That was questionable too," he lets out a half-chuckle.

She stares at him, plaintive. "You two are gonna be OK, you know that, right? You will be."

He shrugs. "I'm ready to come back. I guess she is too."

She nods. She is, as she always has been about this issue, strangely at a loss for words. "I think it'll be good for you two to work things out. You can't avoid problems. Sooner or later, you have to face them." She makes a tiny fist pump. "It'll be good, to work things out."

"We're adults. We've both moved on. I'm not sure how much we need to 'work out,' Mac."

"What the hell _happened_? Why can't you go back?"

"A lot happened, Mac."

"Yes, but that's _life_. A lot _always _happens. You're you, you're you and Maggie. You were in love with her from the moment you walked into that newsroom. You can work this out."

"No, Mac, we can't. I promise."

"It's broken, so you can _fix _it. It can be _fixed_, Jim, I promise. Not in a day or in a month — it takes time — but it can be fixed. I promise." She's lived it. She knows this.

"Mac, I'm pretty sure neither of us _want_ it to be fixed," he says gently. "Things happened, we moved on, end of story. I need you to respect that."

"I'm not sure I can," she says stubbornly.

"You're going to have to," he says, and he waves his left hand in front of her. She's not sure how she didn't notice it before, and she's about to ask when he confirms. "I'm married now."

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Thoughts? Would love to see some more reviews.


	5. Chapter Four -- Sloan

Hey ya'll! I came through on the update. Apologies on the delay on this one, but I wrote TWO (count em) Don-Sloan oneshots for "Hearts are Strong, Hearts are Kind." This chapter has a lot of Don/Sloan, but also gives us a few answers on the Maggie-Jim situation. (Yeah, he's married. For real. And she's alive). But Mac and Jim will come back to New York next chapter, so there's lots to come.

Always so thankful for your reviews and to hear what you think! Guests, thanks for dropping a word, even if I can't respond. It's so appreciated!

Oh, and for those who have asked (shout out **northcaroline :)**) this + Hearts are strong generally take place in the same timeline, though that one makes reference a few times to Sloan and Don dating through the 2012 presidential campaign, and this one makes reference to Genoa. But new characters + events still hold.

It's nice when grown people whisper to each other under the covers. Their ecstasy is more leaf-sigh than bray and the body is the vehicle, not the point. They reach, grown people, for something beyond, way beyond and way, way down underneath tissue. - Tony Morrison, _Jazz_

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June 26

There are few professions, Sloan Sabbith knows, where a great day at work could turn into a shit day at work as quickly as journalism. At the end of those days, she usually goes home, pours a too-large glass of red wine, and darkly tries to convince Don (who never believes her, god bless his cute ass), that she would be better off at a university teaching tenets of economic theory to half-asleep undergrads. He just pours her more wine and kisses her when she gets too annoying to listen to.

Of course, most of those quick-to-crap days were due to horrific breaking news that made her question humanity and her chosen profession. Not because a colleague decided to share some gossip.

"Cory! Welcome back. How was the Middle East?" she says, as she gets mic'ed up.

"Great," Cory, one of their youngest and brightest, says. He was a starter on the Cornell basketball team and a Rhodes Scholar before joining their staff as an international correspondent with an avid Twitter fanbase of twentysomething girls that the office referred to as Corybots. "We got some great footage and sources for the al Shabaab story, and Mila was able to join me in Athens for a few days. We actually met a guy you used to work with — Jim Harper?"

"Of course!" she says, smiling. "I miss him. He's coming back stateside soon and I'm so excited to see him. How was he?"

"He was great. He and his wife were traveling a bit before the move back; I met him at a friend's house in Athens."

"I'm sorry, he and his what?" she stares at him, blinking.

"His wife. Alicia? They were at a party."

"His wife. Like how Mila is your wife?"

"Yeah. His wife."

"Like how I am Don's wife?"

"Yeah..."

"He's married?"

"Yeah," he stares at her, his head cocked. "Doesn't he work for your husband?"

"A lot of people do; I have trouble keeping them straight," she admits. "So let's just assume that's at play here and back up a second. Jim's married?" She knows she's interrogating him, but she can't help it. "Vows, married. Rings, married. Jim, married?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "Yeah. His wife's named Alicia, Alicia-something. She's an aide worker in Ankara? They're newlyweds — at least, my friend introduced her as his new wife."

"Cory, I don't mean to beat a dead horse, but I want to make sure you're clear: Alicia was introduced as his wife? Mila is to you as Alicia is to Jim?"

He nods. "Yeah. She was a little younger, dark-haired, sweet, I guess. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, no, obviously, or else I wouldn't have this reaction, but yes," she smiles. "We — I — just didn't know. That's all."

"Oh. Is Jim a good friend?"

"Apparently not that good," she smiles self-deprecatingly, and they go back on the air in three. At the break at the top of the hour, she excuses herself quickly, yanking out her cell phone.

"Babe?" Don picks up on the second ring, worried. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes. Well, no. But yes, everything's fine."

"Okay...Aren't you supposed to be on the air? I have your show on and you're definitely supposed to be on the air."

"If you have my show on you know that it's Candace's segment."

"Sloan. Why are you calling?"

"Jim's paperwork. Have you taken a look at it yet?"

"Paperwork? What? No? Why would I?"

"I was just talking with Cory Nicholson, who says he was at a party with Jim and his wife in Athens last week."

"With Mila?"

"No. He and Mila were at a party with Jim Harper andJim Harper's wife."

"Jim is married?"

"Yes. Her name is Alicia, according to Cory," she looks quickly at the clock. "I've got to be back on in 30. Can you … handle this?"

"Fine," he says, quickly hanging up.

She doesn't hear back from Don the rest of the day, save for a text saying that he's going to be a little late home (again). After relieving Keiko, she loads all three of the kids and the dog up for a trip to the playground down the street, then quickly makes them some mac'n'cheese with broccoli and reheated shredded chicken for dinner. Since it's one of her versus three of them, they all end up in the bathtub post-dinner, and that's where Don finds her.

"Bathtime! Alright," he says, leaning in the doorway and leering at her a little.

"You just like that it means I'm in a tank top," she says, smirking, because it's true. She's mostly just pleasantly surprised he made it home at 7. "A little help?" she smiles.

"Daddy I got dirty!" Max smiles, standing up, and she quickly moves to seat him again before he falls. Don sheds his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, leaning over to kiss her shoulder before plopping next to her. "We went to the park and then we had mac'n'cheese and then Emmy put her face in the bowl."

"She did?" Don carefully soaps up a sponge and begins to run it over Anna, making sure to get the smudge of cheese on her nose. "Emmy, did you put your face in your bowl?"

Emma smiles broadly. "Is yummy," she explains, as Anna tosses a toy duck out of the tub.

"Susannah Claire, that's it," Sloan sighs, putting the duck on top of the toilet. "No more ducky."

"I want it," Susannah says sternly.

"Nope, you didn't follow directions," Sloan says, carefully palming some baby shampoo before running her fingers through Emerson's curls. "They're mostly soaped up, I just need to do shampoos. And, crap — their bathrobes. Can you go grab them?"

Don returns a second later with robes — a shark for Max, a strawberry for Susannah, and a ladybug for Emerson. They quickly wash their hair and wrap them up, and brush the girls' teeth while Max dresses himself and gets a last 20 minutes with his toy trains. They get the girls in pajamas and new diapers, then split so Don gets storytime with the girls, while she gives Max one last snack (goldfish) and get his teeth brushed. Then they join back up, read Max two stories, and finally turn off his lights at 8. She's exhausted, but still wants to know what's up with Jim.

Don tugs her down toward the kitchen, since she knows he is starving, as usual, and they begin to root through the kitchen. As she bites into a carrot to tide her over, she asks, "Did you get a chance to look into Jim?"

He pulls a bag of just-saute-in-oil frozen ravioli out of the freezer, and holds it up, silently asking the question. She nods. It'll have to do. He tugs it open and sighs. "You're not going to like it."

"Seriously?" she says, raising her voice as she puts it together. "He's married?"

"Officially, on ACN employment paperwork? No. But he hasn't updated those since 2010. He filed his last year's taxes by himself. His life insurance paperwork also still lists his sister as his beneficiary." It occurs to Sloan that sending him on this mission is probably illegal, and definitely an invasion of privacy, but she doesn't care. "So then, since you seemed so adamant —"

"Cory seemed adamant," she interjects.

"Right," he says. "I went into Lexis-Nexis. I found a marriage license for Jim Harper and Alicia Agrella dated January 19th, filed in Paris."

She stares at him, the carrot dangling from her hand. "You're shitting me."

"Nope," he swears.

"He fucking got married, didn't tell anyone, then asked you for a job back right after you hire Maggie, and accepts? Is he planning on bringing this … wife with him? Who is she, anyways?"

"I'm pretty sure he didn't know Maggie was coming back to New York when he asked, to be fair. Unless he knows someone at CNN and had an antenna up. But Alicia is 23, graduated from Dartmouth two years ago, and is a Peace Corps volunteer in the refugee camps. She'd been working in Turkey since September; before that she'd been in Uzbekistan."

Her jaw drops. "So they knew each other, what, four months, before they got married? At most?"

He nods. "Unless they knew each other before. Which is pretty unlikely — she was in New Hampshire, and as far as I know Jim still hates that place."

"Fuck," she says.

"Yeah."

"Fuck!"

"Yeah."

"I am going to kill him," she declares, chomping down heavily on the carrot. "And then I'm going to bring him back to life, so that Kenzie can kill him again," she stares. "Seriously, how did he think this would just stay hidden? That this didn't merit some advanced warning? Oh my god, I have to tell Kenzie." Kenzie's love for Jim was the fierce, unequivocal, and completely judgemental love of an older sister. She would not be happy.

As she goes to reach for her phone, Don gently grabs her wrist. "Can you, not, yet?" he asks. "Mac's in Pakistan, she's dealing with the adoption. Besides," he says, "he is allowed to move on. And also, weren't you all 'treat Maggie like an adult'? Isn't this, like, coddling?"

"Ok, when I said that, I also said that when she acted like a child, we should treat her like a child. He's being childish. And cagey. Plus, you know, the sisterhood."

"Ah yes. The sisterhood. Because the definition of feminism is absolutely that well-educated, empowered women can support each other in bad breakups by denouncing the guy. Charlotte York would be proud," he deadpans, pouring her a glass of wine.

"I should never have told you that," she shoots him a mock-withering glare, then sighs. He holds up his beer and she clinks it with her wine glass. She knows that Jim moving on is good, and she certainly doesn't harbor any illusions of him getting back together with Maggie (not that she's even sure that's a good idea). But — "Ignoring the fact that he's moving back and didn't tell Maggie he got married, which is pretty douchey, what about that he didn't tell us as friends? We would be supportive. Well. Everyone but Kenzie would be supportive. And she would eventually. And even if we're not friends anymore, what about you, as a boss? Like, just a head's up — hey, I'll be bringing a wife with me, we should play bridge."

Her husband sighs. "He gets to town tomorrow. I'll talk to him on Thursday. Who knows — there's definitely a precedent for the ACN crew to do low-key, spur-of-the-moment, incredibly romantic weddings that result in awesome marriages. It could just be that," he loops his hands around her waist and kisses her.

She sighs, but slides her hands under his shirt to scratch his lower back, bumping her hips against his as he runs his hands down her arms. "This is colossally bad timing."

"Yup," he laughs, kissing her lightly. "Wouldn't be Jim and Maggie drama if it wasn't." She laughs, kissing him back, more deeply, and skims her hands around to his front. Feels his stomach muscles clench involuntarily. She laughs into the kiss, because, damn. It's really nice when he gets home before ten.

"Alright, so we're leading with the Fed signaling it's lowering the interest rate, and with China's housing bubble bursting," Travis, her EP, says the next morning at their final news meeting before the show. "Sloan, you'll open the show, but then throw to Bryant for the Fed story."

"Right," she says, barely able to refrain from rolling her eyes. "Good work, people. We'll close the top of the hour with Cory and al-Shabab, and then with a teaser to the Cupertino announcement later this week." After everyone gathers their belongings and scurries off, she remarks to Travis, "You know, I thought the name was This Day With Sloan Sabbith, not Some Random Show With that One Lady and Also Bryant Carmichael."

"Sloan, it's a —"

"Conflict of interest. You've mentioned that. It's also the lead financial story on a financial network, and, oh yeah, I'm the chief financial correspondent, lead daytime anchor, and managing editor of three hours a day." Ever since her dad had taken the appointment to the Fed — "it's a favor to a friend, honey," he'd said, like it was picking up an extra jug of milk at the grocery store for the neighbor and not filling a major Congressional appointment in a pinch for the president of the entire United States — her work life had been complicated. To say the least. She'd sat down with Josh and Rowan and everyone who could possibly be considered her boss, and hammered out the terms of conflicts of interest: Anything involving the general Fed — not good. Someone else should say it. Something telegraphed or said specifically by the Fed chairman — fine, but if possible, please mention her dad.

Travis follows her into her office, where she's grabbing her jewelry and heels. "You know, it would be one thing if we were getting scoops ahead of time from him, but we're not. Or if he was making decisions independently from the rest of the Fed, but he isn't. Or if there's major breaking news or controversy. But when it's minor shit like that? It's kabuki theatre! He's filling a position for two years as a favor to the president. Most people in the world we're speaking to know he's my dad and exactly what the extent of his role is. And further, anyone who might care about the conflict of interest know that I'm the anchor and managing editor, and that anything that gets on the air goes past me. So it doesn't matter whether the words are coming out of Bryant's mouth or mine; I have a final veto on which stories reach the air. For god's sakes, I wrote his text," she pushes the back of her earring on more forcefully than she intended to, and it bites her lobe. She winces. "It's a farce. It's an unworkable stopgap and a total farce." She shoves her feet into her heels and instantly feels ultra-confident in a way that only three-inch pumps can provide.

"Sloan, what would you have us do?"

"Let me report on Fed stuff, and if there is a direct conflict with my family, trust that I've been doing this long enough and am honorable enough to say something about it. Chris Cuomo covered national politics for CNN while his brother was was competitive in presidential primaries. If he can do that, I can do this."

He hesitates. "If you want the report today, take the report today."

"It's not about this story!" she exclaims. "It's about the other eighty-two stories about the Fed we're going to run this week! And next week! This policy isn't a policy."

Gary pops his head in. "You're on in five."

She rolls her eyes. "This isn't done."

"I know," he says, with an eye-roll in his tone. She's deathly afraid of the day one of her kids figures out how to do that.

"What does that mean?" she asks, fastening her watch as she moves past him.

He stops. "All it means is that I know."

"Now this isn't done, either," she says, heading toward the chair as her assistant holds out her mic pack.

Starting a three-hour show off with a spat with the EP is never a good idea, and internally the show teeters on the rails from then on out. But she's been doing this long enough that she knows how to run a tight show while tuning out the producer, except for when he directs her to cut to commercial. She'd learned that in the old days with Don, when their individual grappling with the feelings thing and then the whole work-relationship-boundaries thing had threatened to overwhelm them with a charged, wonky vibe. Pushing other issues out of their heads and being absolutely professional was how they managed to get through a broadcast when working together, even when arguing or uncertain of what exactly they were supposed to be doing, and ultimately it had made her a better journalist.

Until they realized that him talking dirty into her ear during commercials was a way more satisfying way to deal, and ultimately had made her better at being in the relationship.

Not that that's an option here. Because, gross. On so many levels.

Rowan, the nattily-dress led president of news, watches the last five minutes of the closing panel she's moderating, on the impact that the president's foreign policy in Somalia will have on the oil market in the Middle East. She sees him and shifts, then smiles tightly.

After she's thrown it to Erica in San Francisco for Tech Talk and broken the show down with Gary and Noelle, her favorite junior producer, she walks toward Rowan, raising her eyebrows to indicate that she sees him.

"How's it goin', Rowan?" she says, rhyming the words slightly.

"Oh, you know, China's going to take over the world economy and then drag drag the entire thing down. So, peachy," he smiles. "Let's talk."

"After you," she says, as they head to the elevators. "Did you know that the fortune cookie was not actually invented in China?"

"San Francisco, 1920, if I remember correctly," he smiles at her, stopping at the cereal bar and filling a tiny bowl with grape nuts and honey-nut cheerios. He doesn't add milk. Everyone in the office knows about Rowan's food tics.

"It was also originally Japanese, not Chinese, as my mother liked to point out," she smiles, lifting an orange. Rowan leads her to his office and pushes it open with his back, then lets her walk in first. She sits in the chair opposite his, waiting patiently.

"So I heard we're unhappy with the conflict-of-interest policy," Rowan says, setting the cereal aside.

"I wouldn't say unhappy. I think frustrated is a little more apt. Or aggravated. Or — Nevermind, sorry," living with a word-nut like Don makes her extra-precise in her language. "If the policy did what it intended to do, I would be fine. Frustrated, but fine. But it doesn't. It's a porous and artificial boundary, and all it does is prohibit me from doing stories I should get, and hurts our coverage overall. It's overly cautious; cutting me out of the Fed cuts me out of basically one fifth of all the stories we cover. We're a financial network, and you're cutting me out of twenty percent of stories. Everyone watching us knows that someone who has a two-year appointment and is just a voting member doesn't really make decisions. But it does stop me from doing my job."

"Given that we are a financial network, we have a higher bar for our audience," Rowan argues back. "We're not CNN or ACN, we don't have another niche to fill. If they don't trust that we're being ethical and they leave, there's not a whole lot of people to fill their spots."

"Where would they go? CNBC? Fox Business? CNBC is slow, and tell me with a straight face you think our viewing audience would go to Fox Business."

"I don't know where they go but this seems like an unnecessary risk."

"Have numbers dropped in the last six weeks?"

"No."

"Then what's the problem?"

"You have been in this business long enough, Sloan, to know that it's not unethical behavior that brings you down. It's the appearance of unethical behavior. It's fine now but that can absolutely turn on a dime."

She stares at him, and takes a deep breath before she throws things. "Seriously? I made it through a photo scandal and was part of a team that fucking accused the government of dropping sarin gas on civilians. I'm not proud of either of those, but I weathered them. I think you need to have more faith in your fucking viewers. If you trust them and are honest with them, they'll trust you."

Rowan sighs. "I'm not saying I don't trust you, or that the viewers shouldn't trust you, but that if, god forbid, another huge financial crisis happens, on this Fed's watch, we're going to have some serious issues if your dad is one of the governors. Serious issues." She sighs too, because she knows, at the end of the day, that's the problem. "If that happens, the network's in one of the biggest clusterfucks any network has ever had to deal with, and we don't have the institutional prestige of an ACN to weather it. You're the best financial reporter in the business, Sloan. Hell, you're one of the best, period. And I want to think on it, I really do, because you're right: You should be reporting those stories. But when push comes to shove, we're here to be vigilant and informative about business and economics, and there's a line, a very thin line, that when crossed you become part of the story. And at that point we, as a network, lose our credibility. And if that happens, if we're pushed aside on the biggest financial story in a decade, then yes. Yes our viewers leave, and yes we're fucked. And you know that."

She purses her lips, because he has a point. "I still think it would be worth taking a look at what's currently a blanket ban on me saying the word Fed. I'm not saying I should be on every story but I need to be able to do my job."

"I'll think on it," he promises, then raises a hand in a 'you're free to go' gesture.'

When she gets home shortly after 5:30 that evening, she hears voices — specifically, a familiar male voice — coming from the kitchen. "Charlie," she says as she enters. "Charlie is in my kitchen." Indeed he is, sitting at the island sculpting clay with the kids. "Hi Charlie," she says.

"Hey, Sloan," he smiles. "We're sculpting. Give us a sec."

"Hey, Mrs. K," Cristina, the nanny, says. "He came by maybe 30 minutes ago, said the two of you had plans to talk? I figured, I know him, the kids know him …" She twists an eyebrow upward and hopes that she's right.

"Yeah. It's fine," she says, even though they had no such plans. "How were they today?"

"Oh, great. Emma didn't have the best nap, so she's been a little tired. Max had a good swim lesson; the instructor says he's probably ready to test to the next level. And then they all had a really great time at Group at the park. Today was musical instruments; I'll text you the photos we took."

"Mama, we played xylophones!" Max exclaims, jumping off his stool artfully. "They start with the letter 'x' and sound like tinkles and yawns. You have to hit them in the middle or they don't make the sound, though." He jumps up onto her side, and she kisses the top of his head. "And then there were ma-ra-cas!" he rolls his r's, probably like Cristina did. "Emma liked those the most."

"Shake-shake-shake," Emerson intones, making the motion with clay-globbed fingers. That's going to stain her Boden shirt. Crap.

"Adios, mis amigos. Nos vemos el Jueve," Cristina says to the kids. "Diga Keiko que dije 'konnichi-wa'."

"Adios, Cristina," they chorus back. Cristina grabs her jacket, waves to Charlie and her, and leaves.

"We're making animals," Charlie says, holding up a lion, the only recognizable shape in the bunch. Artists, her kids are not.

"Sure you are," she replies. "Can I get you anything to drink, Charlie?"

"Nope, I'm good," he says, setting down the figurine. "I just was in the neighborhood —" she snorts, since it is 5 p.m. on a Tuesday and the only way he was in the neighborhood would be if he was going senile and walked out of ACN and headed north for forty blocks, "and decided to stop by and see you. We haven't really hung out lately, Sloan, so I thought we could get lunch one day. Maybe, say, tomorrow."

"You want to get lunch tomorrow?" she asks skeptically, carefully lifting Susannah onto the counter so she can get a better look at the clay. They really should wash those hands.

"Yes."

"Who all is going to be at this lunch?"

He shrugs. "Well, me, obviously, and I was going to see how the ACN dining room works for you, so Reese might stop by as well."

She raises an eyebrow. "You want me to go to the ACN dining room for lunch with you and Reese? Just a, you know, casual lunch. Between old friends."

He nods, firm in his convictions. "Yes. Your husband works at ACN, it looks like you're just joining him for lunch." He shrugs, "A casual lunch."

She raises her eyebrow with a mix of skepticism and pity — because, really, he cannot be this dumb; he's worked in news for 50 years — as she tries to roll the clay off Anna's hands, and says, "I can't do tomorrow. And lunch is kind , since I'm in the chair from 11 to 2. I'm assuming you're both coming to Will and Kenzie's Fourth of July thing?" She's unconvinced of her friends' idea to host a 'small' Independence Day gathering to introduce everyone to a brand-new-to-America toddler, but she's being supportive best friend and fellow parent.

"Absolutely. Will's going to make those pigs in the sheets things again. Every time I have one, I just have to ponder how extraordinary they are."

"Tell Reese if he wants to talk, we'll talk there," she sighs. It's terrible timing, for Charlie to come by and start a pitch today, when she's disillusioned with her current employers. But he's an old mentor and Reese gave her her first job in TV, and she owes it to them.

"Alright," Charlie says, beginning to move toward the hall. "we will talk then."

"Where do you think you're going?" she asks.

He stops. "Back to ACN?" he tries.

"What for, exactly?"

"To do my job," he says.

"Nice try," she looks at the clock. "It's 5:45. It's officially evening and primetime programming, which is what you hired my husband for, and he'll be at the office until at least 9:30. So he can handle everything at ACN, and since you're here, you might as well help with dinner and cleaning up," she smiles. She never understood Charlie's insistence on sticking around so late every evening. It surely drove Nancy nuts.

He raises an eyebrow, sees she's not backing down, and realizes it's probably in his best interests to comply. "Alright then," he leans over to talk to Susannah, who is still covered in clay, despite Sloan's best efforts. "Let's go get you cleaned up, bug."

"I girl, not bug," Anna retorts, but follows him happily. She turns to Emerson, who is still happily massaging the clay, and picks her up. Emma shrieks. Of course.

It's an uneventful evening. Charlie doesn't complain when she serves him the same spaghetti with chunky tomato sauce and broccoli that she serves the kids, though he does pass on the all-natural organic chicken dog that she makes for Max. He plays with Max as she gets the girls ready for bed, then reads Max his stories so she can catch up on her email. After she kisses Max and ensures he's asleep, she finds him waiting in the library, a Scotch in hand, stares at the pictures ringing the television. One of eleven in the apartment. There's another drink waiting on the table.

"Scotch on a school night?" she says, but picks up the glass and takes a sip.

"Develops your constitution," Charlie replies. He nods towards the TV, where Will is telling America all about the latest action in Syria. "Maggie's doing a fine job at 8 o'clock. That was a good suggestion."

"I'm glad she's back in New York," she says simply. "How's Will doing with Mac in Pakistan?"

"He'll be happy when she's back," he says. He stares at the photos a bit longer. "You have a very good-looking family," he finally comments. "How are they? Your folks. They're in D.C. full time now, I presume?"

"Yeah," she says. They had bought a house in Georgetown two years ago, so her mom could be an assistant secretary of state, mainly overseeing issues of international law and women's issues, and so they could be closer to their grandkids, all of whom were on the East Coast. "Sometimes I think my dad took the job at the Fed just so he wouldn't get too bored." She honestly does believe that, that and when he says it was just a favor. Her dad has long been more interested in the economics of poverty and what globalization could do to elevate the conditions in the Third World. The Fed is an academic exercise for him.

"Can't be making things easy over at Bloomberg," he says casually, knocking back the rest of her drink.

She stares at him. "No," she decides out loud.

"No what?"

"No, I can't believe you actually think I would fall for this. And let's be honest, you wouldn't respect me if I did."

"I'm not asking you to fall for anything, I'm applying logic to the situation," he says. "Your network covers almost exclusively business and the economy. Your dad just muscled his way into being one of the dozen most important people in the government when it comes to economic policy. Of course I think that's made your life difficult."

She shrugs. "We've got a policy in place."

"What, that you can't cover the Fed, I'm guessing?"

She freezes. "It's the safest policy."

"Bullshit," he says. "Safest thing for you to do is move to ACN, where the economy and business is 20 percent of what we cover, versus 85. You're allowed to do more things, be involved in more stories. Run your own show about any damn thing you care about."

She cocks an eyebrow. "When are you retiring?" she asks.

He's a little taken aback but admits, "Probably eighteen months, I'm thinking. End of next year."

"Right," she nods. "Because you brought Don on for that." She's not alleging things; this is fact.

He shakes his head yes. "Nothing's set in stone, Sloan, but I like him and Reese likes him and he's smart. When he's not being an idiot, he's pretty smart."

"I know," she says, not arrogantly. "But that means, if he's head of news, he's my boss. So I go from having my hands completely tied because of my father, to being subordinate to my husband and probably subject to a conflict of interest agreement about my dad, so those 20 percent of stories wouldn't be mine anyways. No thanks. I've worked too hard for people to think that I get my jobs because of my dad or my husband. Dessert?"

"Are you an idiot, or did you just hit your head on something hard?" Charlie asks.

"Excuse me?"

"Sloan. Yes, you've been raised by and surrounded by smart and thoughtful and successful people, which is an advantage that most people don't get, and you seem to be upset about it. But right now? We're asking you to meet with us because of you! You are smart and thoughtful and successful. You're either the most-watched or the second-most-watched daytime news anchor today. On Bloomberg! They can't get those numbers with anyone else. You have prizes, you give speeches, you have more than a million Twitter followers, you have two Ph.D.s, and you have been blessed with more intellect than three people combined. You've interviewed more Cabinet members than most people can name, and you work harder than a priest whose church is next to a whorehouse. Why in fuck's name do you possibly think we're hiring you because of Don?"

She smiles slightly, and downs the Scotch. "I'll see you at the Fourth of July party."

She's in bed when Don finally gets home. "Hey," he calls as he enters, heading straight into the bathroom. "How was your day?" He turns the water on.

She sighs, and sets her computer aside. "Shitty," she finally says, raising her voice a little so he can hear her. "I kinda got into it with Travis. And then Rowan. And then Charlie came to visit." She waited until he came out, because he's a little busted.

He peeks his head out of the bathroom, electric toothbrush poking out of his mouth. "Charwie kwame ower?" he slurs, then holds up a finger and ducks back into the bathroom. When he comes out, he kisses her briefly, tasting minty-fresh.

"Uh-uh, pal," she says before he tries anything frisky. "Don't pretend for a second you didn't know."

He shrugs, moves her crap before settling down. "I didn't." She stares at him until he amends his position. "I mean, I didn't know he was coming over today. I knew he was going to talk to you eventually, since our bench is thinner than a Russian model. But I told him to talk to you, not to go through me."

She nods, because she appreciates that. "Bloomberg's not going to let me report on the Fed any time soon, but I don't see how ACN would be any different. My dad's still on the board."

"We report a lot less on the economy —"

"Which is a problem and you should change that," she interjects.

"But right now it works to your advantage, because it means ACN doesn't have the dilemma of trying to balance being Wall Street watchdogs with keeping the Wall Street audience happy. Any way you move on a Fed story at Bloomberg, you're too sympathetic to one audience and that would be unacceptable to both. At ACN you're reporting facts with a disclaimer. You get to be independent because nobody cares. You're not reporting to Wall Street; you're reporting to Main street."

"ACN doesn't do enough about the economy."

"ACN did a lot more about the economy at the end of your time there than it did at the beginning. That was you."

"Because I had a show at 7 p.m."

"And I'm pretty sure they're going to offer you at least one hour, probably two," he sighs. "Twice as much time to talk about the economy."

"For a total of what, ten minutes?"

He stares at her as if she requires small words. "Pretty sure we can find you an EP that will let you do more than that. And I've heard the head of the news is a fan of yours."

She hits him. "That's what I am avoiding by being at Bloomberg!" she says. "People thinking I'm getting things because of you."

"I meant Charlie," he wheezes. "Also, ow."

"Oh," she says, a little befuddled. "Right."

"Look, for the record, the only person who wants you to come back because you're married to me is, well, me. Charlie and Reese want you back because you're damn god at the job. Now, do you want me to wear my ACN hat or my supportive-husband hat?"

"I want you to be the supportive husband, but then also give me the insider information about what they're thinking," she admits, with an upfront half-smile.

He cocks his head. "Alright, fine. Little unethical, but let's go with it. First, supportive husband. Why did you get into news?"

"To tell people what they need to know about the economy."

"Alright. And you think Bloomberg's audience has no idea what's going on when they hear the word inflation?"

"Well, no ... but that's also a good thing. It means I don't have to spend ten minutes explaining inflation."

"Alright, fine. But you got in it to help people, to hold business and government accountable, to inform the public, and I'm just asking you to really think about whether ACN or Bloomberg allows you to do that better." He cocks one eyebrow. "Also — and I'm just spitballing, this is value-judgement-free — remember how much you liked reporting on other stuff the economy affected? Politics? Drones? Terrorism? Hell, energy and transportation policy? You loved that stuff. And so I'm asking you what network gives you a better platform to talk about those issues, to balance them with the economy."

"I really, really, really like economics," she reminds him. "Like really."

"Oh, I know."

"I miss economics. Bloomberg's a good way to stay in the game."

"Have you thought about teaching again?" he asks. "Just one class?"

"When the kids are so young?" she makes a face. "I'd rather spend time with them."

"Alright, professor," he says. "What do you like about Bloomberg?"

"I like the focus on economics and business."

"We've covered that."

"I like my colleagues. No offense."

"A little taken," he says. "Pretty sure you'll like at least one guy at ACN better."

"Yeah, I heard their president of news is a silver fox with great taste in bowties," she laughs.

"You know what? I'm going to tell him you said that," he says, smug. She laughs mores. "Look, Reese and Charlie want you back. I think they want you from, like, 3 to 5 at night. And they want you to consider an option to move to primetime in a few 're in a position — which you earned — to negotiate to get a lot of what you want — editorial control, twenty minutes of numbers a day, out by five to get home, whatever. So I would think pretty seriously about it. The ACN bench is thin now, but it will fill up, and if Charlie goes through with his master retirement plan —"

"It'll be harder to negotiate in a few years since you'll have his job," she finishes for him. Which is exactly what she's irritated about. If it's such a not-problem, why is the timing so important?

"That's his plan. I doubt he's floated it by Reese," he says seriously. Don, for all his pragmatism, is one of the most superstitious people that she knows. She gives him a dubious, please don't be dumb, look. "But Charlie will move heaven and earth for you and that's something you needd to consider," he says. She purses her lips, because she doesn't like that. "Anyways. I would say hear them out. And then we'll talk about what's the best decision for you, for us, for the kids. But it's just an old conversation between a few friends."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Would you be ok with me coming back?"

He looks at her as if she's nuts. "Yeah, I would be ok with you coming back."

"It's just, you would outrank me. And one time you told Mac that the reason you didn't ask me out sooner was that you would have to be my boss sometimes -" she's completely, 100 percent, joking, but Don sometimes has trouble with deadpan, and it's fun.

"I said that, like eight years ago, once, and we worked together for four years, mostly fine!" he says indignantly.

"Right," she laughs, in a tone that indicates she's teasing, finally setting aside her email. "Alright. Thank you." She's still not convinced — there's something, deep in the pit of her stomach, that makes her feel wary, but she's in no position to articulate the discomfort to Don right now. And it drives him nuts when he can't fix a problem she's having.

She's not sure why the idea of going back to ACN makes her want to dig in her heels. Well, she kind of does. For one, she's entirely unconvinced that taking a job at ACN will solve whatever problems she wants to leave at Bloomberg. In fact, it'll just create potential conflicts when Don takes over the whole news department. Even though Don thinks it will be fine, he'll have an entirely different palate of concerns, and those might not align with hers: What if the direction she takes the show in results in low ratings and he wants her to change it? What if she loses it with a guest and he needs to fire her? He doesn't want to acknowledge those. Don's an optimist about his family and a cynic about himself and the world.

Her concern isn't Don. She's always viewed her relationship with Don as a true partnership grounded in respect; not in a touchy-feely way, in a real, squicky, sometimes uncomfortable way. Successes and challenges are shared, decisions are made together, honesty is mandated even when it's not preferable. They have arguments, they don't see eye-to-eye on everything (or some days, even some things), but they've chosen this and they stick by decisions. She wouldn't be able to do half the things she does without him. He makes her stronger; she is sure of that. And she's felt like Don impinges her independence, or like their jobs put them in competition with one another. She's never felt defined or stifled by their relationship, or by her relationship with anyone else. She's always been proud to say wife, always been able to talk to Don.

But there's too many variables here, and she just, on the principle of the matter, doesn't like to be making a career decision because her father inadvertently screwed her over. Sloan's self-aware enough to know that nobody, especially not Don, can make her do anything against her will — and she knows that Don would never want her to do something or make a career move just because it was good for him. She thinks she might just be feeling a little persnickety. Maybe she just needs a few days' time to get over the arguments at work, and process whatever latent anger and annoyance she's feeling about her dad's decision.

So she moves to straddle his lap, brushes some hair out of his eyes, shakes her head to clear her mind. "Hi," she smiles. "How was your day?"

He loops his arms around her waist and pulls her closer. "Pretty good," he says. "I had lunch with Elliot, and he says he'd talk to Jeannie about taking eight. So if we have him there we can get Cal at 10, we won't be in bad shape."

"That'd be fun," she says. "He's got someone else in mind for EP, though? This wouldn't be a reunion thing."

"God, no," he chuckles. "He's thinking Mike Finley."

"So you'd be home by, like, 8? At night? Not 10 or 10:30?" she smiles, excited, and shifts against him just a little bit.

He bites back a groan, but keeps his hands on her hips. "Maybe even 7:30 some days, if I can bring stuff home," he smiles, a gentle mock in his voice. She kisses him slowly. It's gentle, reassuring, familiar. It's a good feeling.


	6. Chapter Five -- Jim

Hey all! One upshot of the furlough is that I managed to write this much quicker than anticipated :) Anyways, here's Jim's POV, and a little into what's been going on in his life for the last four years. Keep in mind that JIM is the one telling the story, so he's as reliable as he wants to be. :) Even with that said, I'm not sure how well this chapter works, so would love to hear your feedback (no seriously. I really, really would. I can beg).

"Whether or not you find your own way, you're bound to find some way. If you happen to find my way, please return it, as it was lost years ago. I imagine by now it's quite rusty." -_ The Phantom Tollbooth_

* * *

_June 28_

In six years working for Charlie Skinner — and by extension, Will McAvoy and Don Keefer — Jim had never developed a taste for whiskey. They'd mocked him, of course, demanded that he become a better _newsman_, but he had stood firm with his socially-acceptable microbrew. In fact, if someone's really asking, he secretly thinks girly drinks are _great_.

But his meeting with MacKenzie McAvoy drives him to ask the flight attendant for a double Scotch as soon as the second leg of his flight, from Dubai to Rome, takes off. It still tastes like soap, but makes his brain sufficiently bleary.

He wasn't quite sure what compelled him to call Mac when he found out he was going to Islamabad at the same time she was there to pick up Nora; at the time, he thought it would be easier to tell her privately. Get her to understand, prime her to like Alicia. And if she knew, his logic went, maybe she could tell everyone else, saving him a hell of a lot of awkward conversations when he got back to New York. When he'd asked for the transfer back to New York, moving back and retrofitting himself into his old circles with a wife was going to be hard enough, and that was before he'd found out that Maggie was also moving back to New York. So he had thought it might be strategically advantageous, to tell Mac away from everyone else and then have her leak it. He thought it might make things easier.

Of course, he hadn't taken into account the fact that, in New York, he could escape. Go home or to his office or wherever, if the conversation wasn't going his way. And Mac probably would have shouted less in New York, though with Mac one could never really know. In Islamabad, it was a six-hour-long, perambulatory, stop-and-start, mildly passive-aggressive question-filled argument punctuated with an occasional arm-punch and yelling.

He admits that it hadn't helped that he didn't really get a chance to tell her he was married until she was laying into him about trying to make it work out with Maggie. He could definitely work on his timing. But in retrospect he wonders if it could have gone any differently.

"The fuck, Jim?" she'd said. "The fucking fuck, man. You got married?"

He'd nodded, a small grin on his face. "Yeah. In January. In Paris."

"To _whom_?" she'd asked, her eyes scanning the playground as Nora, dressed in a bright yellow dress purchased in New York and costing more money than all the other playground kids' outfits combined, ran around with new friends.

"Her name's Alicia," he'd said. "She works in a refugee camp, as a teaching assistant. I met her on a story last year."

"And what, it was love at first sight?" Her voice was scornful, because Mac had only ever had difficult or meaningless relationships. "You just, I don't know, decided to get married?"

"You know, I don't know if I expected you to be _happy_, or even _supportive_, but respectful would be a good start," he'd said pointedly, scratching his beard.

"I'm sorry," she'd said. "I'm just — I'm a little surprised."

"Why, exactly?" he'd shot back. "I've been ... away from New York for four years. Maggie and I dated for _one_ year. I've had — I've had other relationships. And _we_," he'd signaled between their bodies, "haven't seen each other in three years! At least admit it's not outside the _realm_ of possibility that I moved on."

"We still talk at least twice a month and you've never so much as _sneezed_ her name!" she'd shot back, smacking him against the arm. "Christ, Jim, if you want _respectful_ or _supportive_, I'd think you'd respect me enough to tell me! I want to be happy for you but excuse me if I'm a little _blindsided_ here." She smacked him again for good measure.

"Ow," he'd replied, annoyed, because it did hurt. "You know, just because you're tiny, doesn't mean your fists don't _hurt_."

"Sorry," she'd said, not sounding particularly apologetic. "I just … Why didn't you say anything?"

"Would you believe me if I said I thought you might react poorly?" he'd quipped.

"It's a _bombshell_, Jim," she'd said, the annoyance cresting in her voice again. She'd taken a deep breath. "So. Back to my question. Was it love at first sight?" Her voice was careful and neutral.

"I wouldn't say _first sight _but …," he'd smiled. Falling for Alicia had been one of the simplest things he'd ever experienced. He'd dated a few women since the breakup with Maggie, had spent plenty nights in bars losing himself and forgetting everything. But he'd emerged from a cloud, finally, about a year ago. He'd been _ready_. And when he met Alicia two months later, he'd felt clear-headed enough to function for the first time since leaving. She was fantastic: passionate and smart and funny and freaking _gorgeous_ and great at her job. It was a winning, irresistible combination, and he'd wanted to make it serious and settle down with her almost immediately. He hadn't been that struck since the first time he'd seen Maggie, when he'd tripped over Mac's luggage eight years ago. "We met in September and got married in January. Her parents met us in Paris and we got married in the Place des Vosges."

"You met, you fell for her, you got married in Paris?" she had seemed stunned at the simplicity.

"Yes. Not every relationship needs to take its cues from a Bogart film," he'd swiped.

"Does she know about Maggie and the accident and Caroline?" Mac had asked pointedly.

He'd sucked in a breath, _hard_, because one of the unspoken post-accident rules was to _not say her name_. And just because he'd moved on didn't mean that it wasn't always going to make his heart pinch. "She knows enough."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's in the past, Mac, and we moved on, and I got married, and she knows I have a past, and yes. Yes, she knows about Maggie," he'd stared straight ahead. "This is my marriage, Mac, just like how you and Will are married. I didn't get married because it sounded like something fun to do on a Tuesday. I got married because I love her."

The conversation had subsided for a bit, as they watched Nora play some more. They'd taken her to a shop selling mango popsicles. Nora and Mac were tentative, but respectful, of one another, and Nora had said, "_Shukriya_, Mama," when Mac had handed her the popsicle.

"So what's she like?" Mac had asked as they sat on a bench eating the popsicles.

"She called you Mama."

"She doesn't know what it means," Mac had shrugged, with a pained look on her face. "It's just something they told her to call me. I … didn't feel right making a big deal out of it. I think it's easier, if she doesn't know what it means."

"I think it's a start."

She'd ruffled his hair. "Tell me about this girl," she'd commanded.

"She's … she's great. Mac, you'd really like her. She's got this great sense of adventure, she's hilarious, she's — she's super-straightforward. Like, she calls you on your bullshit. And she's a great listener. But, she's also really happy. She's silly. She finds things … delightful. Like, she's just really optimistic. She finds the good in situations, and in people." Mac had smiled. He thought it had been over.

But nope. "I don't get it," Mac had mused, very flatly, about an hour later. "And I'm a little pissed, frankly. I feel it should be noted that I am refraining from violence."

"What don't you get?" he had practically whined. "I moved _on._"

"It's not that. That I get. Kind of," she had frowned shook her head, indicating, _maybe not_. "I don't get why you had to. And I didn't ask then, so I'm asking now."

"You don't get — are you _serious_? You don't get why we broke up?"

"No! I don't!" she'd said. "I'm sorry, but I really, really don't, and I just … what did I _miss_ Jim?"

"Um, not much, I don't think?" he'd said. "You remember how Maggie was _pregnant_, right? And then I was driving when —"

"She _lost_ the baby, Jim, she lost it. It was an _accident_. It wasn't your fault! She lost the baby and everything was shitty but it wasn't _over_. And then? You're both gone!"

"Yes. Nothing was _ok_, after the accident. And we realized … Neither of us was going to be able to get past it. So we decided to move on. It happens. All the time."

"You don't leave town because you're moving on. You leave town because you _can't_ move on."

He had resisted the urge to bang his head against a wall, repeatedly and to the point of unconsciousness. Maybe he can get a T-shirt that says _Not you and Will!_ He smiles, because Maggie would probably have appreciated that shirt.

"That _allowed _us to move on. I mean, Christ, Mac, it let me become _whole_ — you know what, I don't have to have this argument with you. Everything worked out for you and Will, great. You infused your relationship with some sort of mythical, glittery-vampire power, and now, in retrospect, it's all just _inevitable_ and _romantic._ That's not real life, Mac. That's got nothing to _do_ with real life. Shit happens, things fall apart, people move on, and they _change_."

MacKenzie had been struck. "So why are you coming back to New York?"

He'd shrugged. "I'm ready to come home."

Mac had just sat back, her entire body sagging against the stoop they were sitting on.

The rest of their trip had followed in the same vein, unpleasant and awkward. When he finally gets the Scotch on the airplane, it could not have come at a better time.

Alicia is waiting for him when he gets off the plane in Rome. He still kinda feels punch-drunk every time he sees her, has since he first saw her reading a book to a Syrian refugee last fall, and this time, her hair piled on top of her hair with a scrunchie manufactured before her birth, is no different.

"Hey, husband," she says, wrapping her arms around his ribs and kissing him. "How was the last story? Is 'Gonna Fly Now' going through your head?"

"See, just when I think you've reached the pinnacle of awesomeness, you make a _Rocky_ reference."

"Philly boys are easy to please," she says, catching his lips again. "You taste like cleaning fluid."

"I had Scotch."

"You hate Scotch."

"I do. I really, really do."

She rolls her eyes. "Alright. We've got three days in Rome, and I _really_ want to ride a Vespa and eat my weight in gelato."

"Let's go, Audrey Hepburn."

"You know, Gregory Peck plays a reporter in that movie," she says as they grab his bag.

"Oh, I know," he grins. "How do you think any male journalism major gets laid in college?"

She laughs. "I'm going to miss you when you're in New York."

"You'll be there in a month," he says.

"Yeah, but that's a month where we could be having sex," she points out, sliding her hand into his. "A _whole_ month. And other stuff! And honestly, Harper, much as I love having sex with you, I also really like the other stuff too."

"Well, we have to make the best of these last three days then," he says, kissing the back of her hand.

They're back at the airport in two days' time, Alicia dressed to head back to Turkey as well. "I'll see you in a month," he promises. "It'll go by in no time."

She gives him a long look. "Fine," she kisses him. "Call me when you land, ok?"

"It'll be late," he protests.

She raises her eyebrows. "Call me when you land, ok?"

"Got it," he kisses her one more time. "I love you."

She cups the side of his face. "I love you too."

It's a cramped and restless overnight flight, and he's itchy after his laptop battery dies out 150 minutes in. Once he lands he finds his hotel, crawls into bed, and doesn't wake up until 20 minutes before he's supposed to meet with Don the next morning. "Fuck," he groans, pulling on the nearest jeans, shirt, and blazer. Since he packed the bag himself, they're a little wrinkly. He grabs a taxi, and directs it to AWM. When he gets out, the sun is still way too bright. He gets out and is running into the building, when he stops suddenly, and looks up.

He's home. And it's real. He whistles lowly. Ho-boy.

He takes the elevator up to the 44th floor, smiling awkwardly at people he kind-of recognizes. He might have been working at ACN for the last four years, but he has been in this building exactly three times. He steps off the elevator, smiles at Don's assistant.

"Hi, I'm Jim Harper. I've got a meeting with Don."

"Hi!" she smiles. "It's great to meet you. I'm Cassandra. Welcome back. I've heard a lot about you."

"Just curious, what things have you heard about me?" Because if they're from Mac recently, they're probably not great.

"Good things," she smiles, and stands. He takes a tentative seat. "Don't worry. Don? Jim's here to see you," she says, poking her head in the door. Really, he can't believe Don has an _assistant_. Then, he hears Don mumble to send him in, and Cassandra returns. "He's ready for you."

Jim nods, trying to prep himself. He stands. "Awesome. Thanks."

Cassandra just smiles. "Happy to have you on board, Jim."

"Hey, man," Jim says, with more confidence than he feels, as he walks in. He feels Don assessing his blazer, his tie, his shirt. But he looks Don up and down too: He's got a snappy charcoal-gray suit on with a bluish shirt and no tie, because even though Don's now far enough up the ladder he's got to have the corporate look, he still fancies himself a little bit of a badass. Jim smiles, because some things don't change, and that's a good thing. Don's still got that expansive confidence that replaced the brunt of his jackassiness about seven years ago, and he looks good. The last year he lived in New York, Jim used to meet him on Saturdays for tennis, and he wonders if Don still plays.

"Hey," Don says, standing for a manly backslap. It feels good to be back. "How are you? You must be exhausted. You flew in yesterday?"

"Yeah, but I landed around 11 in the morning, so I actually got to sleep," he smiles. "How've you been? How're Sloan and the kids?" It's a surefire way to distract him.

"They're great," Don says, taking out his phone and swiping to a photo before sliding it over to Jim. Jim tilts it to get a good look at it. It's an action shot on the steps of the American Museum of Natural History — Sloan and Don are huddled together sitting down, a twin on each lap, Max standing to the side of Don, who has his arm wrapped around his hip to steady him. They're both in sunglasses and grinning wildly, but Max is sticking his tongue out at one of the twins, who's making a face back at him, and the other one is pointing at something completely off screen. He thumbs through a few more — Max grabbing the corners of his mouth and sticking out his tongue (it seems to be a favored pose), the darker-haired twin tasting a food she didn't like, the lighter-haired one shoving a flower into Sloan's nose. "The kids are good. Sloan's still kicking ass over at Bloomberg," Don says.

"They're so big," Jim observes, handing the phone back. It's crazy, how Max went from a roly-poly nugget four years ago to the lithe, athletic little boy mugging for the camera in the photos. He shakes his head.

"Yeah," Don smiles, but then stops abruptly. Jim kind of gets it — he's dealt with, accepted, reconciled, everything that happened, but since that process required a move 7,000 miles away, the people he was close to didn't really get that. And so they'll probably be a little out-of-water over the next few weeks. But he's ready. He's moved on. "They keep us on our toes," Don finally says, a little lamely, clearly wanting to move away from the topic of children. "So what about you? What's new? Do you have an apartment or do you need a couch?"

"I'm good. Happy to be back stateside," he says, wondering if Mac called and ranted truths through the phone. "I'm staying at the Hilton for a few days but then I have a month-to-month lease starting July 1 in Columbus Circle. I'll stay there until I find something a little more permanent." He'd like to find something on the Upper East by September.

"Great," Don says. "And your wife? Did she come to New York? Congrats on the wedding, by the way." His voice is affable and non-accusatory.

"Did Mac — " Jim's eyes widen, because of _course_.

"No — Mac? Mac knows? No. It was … Sloan. Sloan found out. One of her reporters mentioned he'd met you at a party in Greece — Cory? Cory Nicholson?"

"Oh, my god," Jim says, because of course. He remembers meeting Cory, he remembers Cory saying he worked at Bloomberg TV. "Look, I know I should have mentioned something … But it was a very private wedding, and we wanted to keep it that way … You know, like how you and Sloan did." It's a stretch, he knows.

"Yeah. Sloan and I had a wedding announcement in the _New York Times_ the day after we got married, placed by her parents, and an e-blast from MacKenzie to 400 people. She _also _bought cupcakes for the entire newsroom. _Then_ Will and Elliot announced it to about 2 million people on the air. Timothy Geithner and Hillary Clinton texted Sloan congratulations. So no, not like we did," he says gently, and studies Jim. "I meant it when I said congratulations, by the way. I think we're just a little stunned you never brought it up." He does sound sincere. He's taking it way better than Mac.

"When you say we …"

"I mean Sloan and me. We wanted to talk to you before telling anyone else. But Mac knows?"

Jim looks at him, nodding gratefully. "Yeah. I saw her in Pakistan and told her," Don waits as Jim fidgets. "Her name's Alicia. She's an aide worker working in a Syrian refugee camp. Her mom is Saudi and she grew up speaking Arabic so she's pretty good at it. We met in October when I was covering a story on her camp."

"Cool. When do we get to meet her? Is she coming back to New York?"

"Not … Not yet, no. She's got another month at the camp, then she'll be in New York for a while."

"And then she'll … go back to Turkey?"

"We're … still not sure. Her commitment to the Peace Corps is done, but she still wants to work in international issues. She'll be here for about a month, maybe two, but she's thinking she wants to go back and work in the camps again."

"But you asked for a transfer stateside?"

"I wanted to be in New York," he says simply. It's true. He'd spent four years away. His sisters' kids were growing up, his dad had had a heart scare, his mom was retiring. He missed reporting from the center of the world. He wasn't going to stay away forever. After the wedding, he'd felt … almost whole enough again, like he knew that he could move back and not be destroyed. Before that he hadn't been sure.

Don stares at him, not entirely convinced. He finally settles on asking, "Are you happy?"

"Yeah. It feels … It's good."

"That's great. I'm happy for you," he shifts, purses his lips uncomfortably. "I know I mentioned it when we spoke about the transfer, but Maggie came back to be senior producer at eight o'clock. She quit her job in Atlanta and moved back to New York to do this, because I asked her to. I didn't want her to keep punishing herself out there in the wilderness. When you asked to come back, I felt the same thing about you. And you've both told me separately that the past is in the past and everyone who's concerned about this is overreacting. So I'm gonna assume that you both can handle this and that _you_ willhandle telling her."

"Sounds good," Jim says. He means it. He's not sure _how_ they're going to deal with each other, but he wants to be in New York, he's not going to fuck this up.

"Now, you should probably go and update your employment file to reflect that you're married," Don smiles.

"Right. I'll be in tomorrow to meet the team," he stands. "How's she doing, by the way?" he turns in the doorway, gently rapping his knuckles against the frame.

"Maggie?"

"Yeah."

Don stares for a minute. "She's good."

"She is?" he just wants to confirm.

"Yeah. When was the last time you guys spoke?"

"When she told me she was moving to Georgia," he shrugs, because it's true. She'd disappeared for a day, woken up way ahead of him, flown to Atlanta without telling him. He'd gone to work, gone to bed alone, but found her next to him the next morning. She'd just shifted and said she wasn't coming into work, which wasn't so unusual. But instead of watching _How I Met Your Mother _on Netflix, she'd spent the day packing, and had been waiting for him when he got home. She'd been unemotional, two suitcases at her side, her hair pulled back and her face makeup-free. Her voice was dead. He would not forget that day. _I need to do this. I can't be here, and look at you, and look at that room, and think about these things, anymore. _"It's been a while."

Don throws his pen down and leans back. "OK, I'm just gonna say it," Don blurts. "What you and Maggie went through? Was hell. When I think about it, I think about my kids, I think about Sloan, and my heart just fucking _stops_. We all feel that way. That's why we didn't say anything when you two split for opposite ends of the world. But you've both decided to come back. And I'm happy about that, I really am. But this is it, though. You can't … You don't get to be mopey, you don't get to be passive-aggressive, you can't play fucking games with each other, you can't purposefully avoid each other, whatever. This shit hurts everyone. Especially you guys. Not in my goddamn newsroom. You need to tell her you've gotten married, and that you expect to be friends and colleagues."

"Well, colleagues, probably," he corrects. "Don't think we'll be friends anytime soon."

"Whatever," Don says. "You'll talk to her?"

"Sure," he says. "I will."

"Jim."

"I will."

It's strange, being back. He's jet-lagged, but it's way more than that. Everything in New York is basically the same, but with a twist, like he fell through the Looking Glass and didn't realize it. The color palate of New York is tinted differently than Ankara, than the Middle East, and the sun hits his eyes in strange and new ways. It's probably not an exaggeration that food tastes a little different. He's never lived on the West Side (or above Times Square) before, so he often goes in the wrong direction when he leaves the apartment.

He's not starting until the week after the Fourth, so he spends his days looking for an apartment, reading news in cafes, and skyping with Alicia. He feels a little bit like an ACN leper, so he avoids the office, Mac, Will, Don, and Sloan, in that order, since he's not sure how they feel about him right now. Even though he did _nothing_ wrong. He still feels wary.

He supposes he should take the time to track down Maggie and have the so-I'm-married-just-FYI talk, but there's not a really good way to phrase it. He's not avoiding her, he's just … marinating. So he meets Neal for drinks instead, and lets Neal get him drunk and tell him all about how he's going to propose to Mariah, his girlfriend, and then crashes on Neal's couch.

The day before the Fourth, four days before he's starting at ACN, he gets a call from Will. "Jim," he says affably. "Heard you're back in town."

"I am. How are you? How's fatherhood?"

"I'm good. We're … adjusting," he says. "Nora's a lovely little girl. She's getting used to America, getting used to us. But we're hopeful. We're hopeful."

"That's great. I met her in Pakistan and she seems great."

"Yes. She's wonderful," Will clears his throat. "Anyways. We're having a small get-together tomorrow, a welcome to America, Fourth of July, thing. You should come. We're starting around three and going till the fireworks, I guess."

"You are?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure Mac —"

"Mac wants you here," Will says. "She does. In fact, not coming might piss her off. And I speak from experience when I tell you that's not a good thing. You should come."

"Alright," he swallows. "I'll be there."

The next day he knocks on the door to Mac and Will's new apartment — it's on West 58th, so if the windows are angled properly they'll be able to see the fireworks over the Hudson — two six-packs of beers in hand. He's slightly surprised when Sloan, in bright red linen shorts, a sleeveless white Oxford, and gladiator sandals, opens the door. She's got the lighter-haired toddler from the photos on her hip, also thematically dressed in a blue dress dotted with white stars.

"Jim! Hi! Welcome home," she smiles, extending one arm into a hug. "Come in, come in. So good to see you. How is being back in New York?"

"It's great. Still a little jet-lagged, but great. Who is this?"

"This? Oh. This is Susannah," Sloan smiles, holding onto Susannah's wrist to make her wave. She's pretty cute, with her hair twisted back and held in place with sparkly silver clip-things shaped like stars. "She and I came early to help Mac get set up. Come on into the kitchen. You're the first here." Shit. That means nobody is here to be a witness to this, except Sloan, who is always on Mac's side, so she is no help.

Whatever nerves he has, though, Mac banishes them with a smile when he enters the kitchen. Ok.

"Hey, Jimmy," she says with a smile, hugging him tightly. It's a complete one-eighty from Pakistan. "How was your flight back?"

"It was good," he smiles, "tough getting over the jet lag. Hi Nora," he waves. The little girl, sitting at the island with a coloring book, stares at him and doesn't say anything. Alright then. "I brought beer. And do you need any help?" Sloan slides Susannah into the high chair next to Nora.

"Nope, that's what Susannah's for," Mac smiles, and the toddler begins to gnaw on the rubber spoon in her hands.

"Everything's catered. Minus the hamburgers, which Will and Don are going to grill. Since that's what men do," Sloan says, pulling a tray of deviled eggs out of the fridge. "I'll set this on the table. In the other room."

"Listen, Jim," Mac says, with a nervous smile. "I'm sorry, about what I said in Pakistan. It's been a … stressful … few months, and I guess I just got … swept up in your return and … Nora … and the new job and Maggie being back. Anyways. What I'm trying to say is that you're an adult, and you're in charge of your own life, and I love you like a brother, and I … trust you. I'm happy that you're happy, really, I am. Don has accused me of trying to 'Emma Woodhouse' your life, and while I disagree with the implied insult to one of history's greatest literary heroines, I —"

"I got it," he says. "Thank you."

"I really would like to learn more about … Alicia. At some point."

"She'll be in New York in a month. We could all grab dinner."

Her smile stays fixed in place. "Yes. That would be lovely."

There's a commotion at the door, and Don, with the second twin (Emily? No. Something hipper) strapped on him in a baby-carrier thing, comes in, Max in tow. "Mac, I won a prize at the park! We had an egg race and I _won!_" Max says, arms high in the air. He runs to show Nora his ribbon. "Nora, you can come too next year, when you're not so new to America."

Nora looks at the ribbon and nods. "Ok," she says. "Blue," she says, turning to Mac, who beams.

"You won a ribbon, Max?" Sloan asks. "That's awesome, bud. I'm so proud."

"Mama I carried the egg _so far_," he runs over and jumps in front of her. "And there was a popcorn man and we had water balloons and the big kids tied their legs together and ran all around! And we played tag."

"Sounds like a fun field day. I'm sorry I missed it," she kisses his forehead before he takes off through the apartment, calling for Will.

"Yeah. He's not going to nap at all today and he's going to be so _fun_ come 7 p.m.," Don says, as Sloan undoes the twin. "Hi," he says to her.

"Hi," she says back, extracting the twin, who is wearing a red romper with a white chevron pattern. She kisses him lightly, and Jim notices that _Don_ is dressed thematically as well, in blue-and-white checked shorts and a red henley. Wow. They are _decked_ out for this thing.

Mac notices the Keefer family patriotism too and says, "Christ, Sloan, I love America more than anyone in the room and this is _extreme_."

"Twins are often a logistical nightmare. I get my jollies when I can and yes, sometimes that involves thematically coordinated outfits. I am not ashamed," she defends herself, setting Twin Two next to Susannah. Yup, they do look pretty ridiculous.

"Yes, and this?" Mac points to the two of them.

Sloan looks her husband up and down. "You changed! You had khakis on."

"It's the Fourth of July Sloan, the odds of us both ending up wearing red and white are kind of high," Don says, and Jim laughs.

The apartment begins to fill up quickly then, with way more people than the description 'small' can cover. Charlie and his wife and daughter, Neal and the super-kickass Mariah, Gary and his wife, Tess and her son and husband, tons of people that he recognizes from other networks and even more people he doesn't recognize. Even Reese Lansing shows up, which, the hell? He's with a blonde that Jim thinks he might have seen on TV at some point, maybe? Someone turns on the music, the beer begins flowing, people begin circulating. It's good to see people. Maybe he'll even crack out the guitar, tonight. The apartment is thick with conversation and laughter.

He's talking to Reese's date, who has the fantastically awesome name _Roan_ (Reese is nowhere to be found, and it turns out the girl _was _on a Lifetime movie), when there's a knock on the door but it's tough to hear over the din.

"Do you think Mac and Will will mind if we answer the door?" he asks Roan.

She cocks her head. "Who are Mac and Will?" she asks.

Right. "I'll be right back," he says, excuse me. He moves toward the door, swings it open as the arrival knocks again, more insistently.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, swinging it open to reveal Maggie.

He's not sure why he's struck dumb by this. Of course Mac and Will invited her, of course she would stop by. He should have pieced this together hours ago. He could, after all, be legitimately described as a 'world-renowned' journalist. People in Europe know him. People in Japan know him. And the Middle East. And Australia! He's smart, and even Nancy Drew would have solved this in a heartbeat.

But nope, he's speechless. Finally — "Maggie. Hey."

She looks like she would prefer to crawl under a bed and listen to her boyfriend have sex with his ex. But she also looks good — her hair's in a stylish bob, a little darker than her natural color. It's good, it makes her eyes and face look … good. Finally, she smiles, and says, "Hi, Jim," she licks her lips. "How are you?'


	7. Chapter Six -- Maggie

Hey all! New chapter here, and we're back to Maggie's POV, though we've still got some healthy Sloan and Mac action. I'd love to know what everyone thinks: Of the three storylines (Maggie moving forward; Sloan's professional crisis; Mac's adoption), this is the one I definitely find hardest to write, and I find Maggie's voice hardest to nail down. But we definitely get a lot of background on what went down between Jim and Maggie.

A lot of this chapter weaves in and out of the previous two, though takes it a step further. I would really, really love to hear what you think!

_And all the suffering that you've witnessed_  
_And the hand prints on the wall_  
_They remind you how it's endless_  
_How endlessly you fall_

_-Alexi Murdoch, Breathe_

* * *

_June 26_

"You wanted to see me?" Maggie pops her head into Don's office. She's in a good mood. Things are good. Work is good. Life is good.

"What?" Don says, slightly dazedly. He puts his cell down abruptly.

"You wanted to see me? You told Charlotte to tell me to come up and see you? Any of this ringing a bell for you, Lou Grant?"

"Oh, right. Yeah," he stands up. "I wanted to let you know I'm leaving at 7:00 tonight."

"You are?" she brightens. "For real, leaving? Not just standing outside the control room? Not watching from your office? Not pretending to leave and then circling back like you did last week?"

"Nope. Going home, with a laptop and a pound of manila folders, watching the show with a beer after I read my kid a story," he smiles. "For real. It's yours tonight. Don't fuck it up."

"Ok, boss, this is the last time I'm going to check — you sure you're sure. You trust me not to mix up the A block with the B block? Not to forget who the president is? Or gosh, what if I say we're about to intervene in Syria instead of Somalia?"

"You know, you're really not doing much for my confidence in you," he remarks. "I will take it back. I will be an Indian giver."

"You can't say that anymore," she says, mildly shocked.

"I know, but it's such a good term," he grumbles. "Anyways. Show's all yours. I'm coming to all the rundowns, though."

"Alright."

"And you need to have your cell phone at your side the whole time."

"Yes, dad," she choruses, practically skipping out. The show's all hers tonight. She's giddy. This makes her giddy.

She's smiling as she edits packages and humming as she pedeconferences through the newsroom, and milks it for humor, too. She asks Don, as he's checking on her one last time before heading home, "What's that again?" and points to the TV monitor. He shakes his head and sighs. She says, "Alright, boys and girls, cats and kittens, I'm Margaret Jordan, tonight's orchestra conductor," as she strides into the control room and sticks on her headset. "Hold the applause until the end please."

"You fuck up my show, Jordan, and not only am I never going to forgive you, but I'm going to let you dangle and get the phone call from Don," Will threatens.

Alright then. "Aye, aye," she calls. "Tim, load the graphics. Jax, is the text on the teleprompter? Angelica," she asks the senior booker, "double-check that the first guest is on standby, and Charlotte, call down to D.C. and check that Garrett's at the desk for the liveshot."

"Atta girl," Will says, just to her. She smiles.

The show nearly goes off the rails a few times, but she keeps it together. Afterwards, she gathers the dozen producers for a debrief. "Our package on intervention in Somalia was fine, but there's nothing _new_ and we haven't had anything _new_ in about a week. I need suggestions, tomorrow, about how we're going to find anything new. Put out feelers to the talent, your sources. We need a way in."

"Can't we just wait till the new international news guy starts? That's soon," Ethan, who she has decided is Martin-Lite (about as smart, and not as nice or pretty), points out.

"That's not for another week, from what I hear," she retorts, trying not to internally flinch. "You think Will and Don and Charlie are going to be happy with us running variations on this package for another five days? Fine, don't do anything. Also, we don't _need_ to rely on Jim Harper for this stuff. We have talent! And we have tenacity! We can find a new angle. Right?" A few people, notably Charlotte, nods. "_Right_? Let me hear you!" she repeats, feeling a bit like the cheerleader she was twenty years ago. She lasted one season on JV before falling and breaking her ankle. "Come on people, let's have some pep!"

"Right," they chorus.

She sighs. "Go to Hang Chew's."

"Maggie," they all groan.

"McSweeney's! Sorry," she exclaims. There's a new bar now. "I'll see you tomorrow. I want everyone to have at least two new ideas how to pursue Somalia."

She heads back to her office, flicks through her email, watching the show again to see what she missed. There were some rocky transitions. She pauses, rewinds, times them. They can definitely do better. Aaron's ten o'clock team is wrapping up when she heads out.

She keeps herself busy over the next few days. She runs a lot — eight miles a day, usually, to the point where her body feels ropey and her joints are loose and achy and she has a headache from dehydration. She's not sure when Jim is getting back, and she's not sure what she should be thinking, or what she should say when she sees him. Mostly, it's just something that she's over and done with and past, but doesn't want to have to _think _about every day. After a few glasses of wine, she wonders whether she ever actually moved on, or whether she simply started over. It's a very, very deep thought.

On Friday, Neal lets it slip that Jim is definitely back in New York, and Mariah lets it slip that Jim had a wedding ring on when they saw him. He's _married_. She is rendered speechless for a full thirty seconds, then shrugs, and says _It's his life, I'm fine_. On Saturday, she runs twelve miles then goes on her first date in New York, a guy that Lisa's husband works with. He's a little younger and a relentlessly good guy, the type that holds doors and pours her wine. After the date they drift to a bar and continue drinking, and at one point, he laughs, "I am lucky — and amazed — that you are still single." He seems like he's utterly charmed by her.

"You know, that's one of those things that guys say, that they think is such a compliment," she shoots out with a fair bit of forcefulness, before she really thinks about it. At his surprised look, she continues, feeling a little self-conscious, "Well, you know, because it's like _asking_, 'What's your damage, Heather?' It's saying you're freaked out by the other person's singledom. Why is it a problem? Maybe I want to be single. Maybe I enjoy casual sex and revel in my ability to have it whenever, wherever. Maybe I want to take you on the table right now and not worry that my husband or boyfriend will see it." She takes a gulp of her wine, tries to pretend that it's casual. Then she says fuck it, because he still looks alarmed. "Or maybe it's because I'm bitter and cynical and bad at dealing with other people's baggage and scared of getting close to anyone because of significant dark and twisty events in my past. Do you _really_ want to find that out on a first date? I mean, do you?" she laughs. She looks at him. "Lisa said you were a nice guy. She was right."

"Thanks?"

"That wasn't a compliment; it was a fact." She pulls out a twenty from her wallet and sets it on the table. "The truth is, the reason I'm single is all of those things I listed. I was in a long-term relationship, I was in love, we were Walter Burns and Hildy Johnson, and we were having a baby. Then when I was six months pregnant, he was driving us home from a weekend at our boss's beach house and it was raining. The car skidded, ran into oncoming traffic, and we were hit. I lost the baby and then, three weeks later, decided I could never see his face again, so I told him that he had ruined my life and I moved to Atlanta. And I haven't been able to get _attached_ to anyone," she says these words mockingly, darkly, making air quotes with her mouth, "and so there you have it, good sir, _that's _why I am still single." She finishes her wine. "And that's why 'you're a nice guy' is just a statement of fact. You deserve a nice girl. I hope you find her, because I ain't it."

She finds a much dirtier, danker bar, in the not-as-cool portion of the Lower East, and hangs out there till the guitar player in the house band buys her a drink. She gives him a blow job behind the stage, and the next morning goes on a fifteen-mile run.

On Sunday afternoon, she's contemplating calling Will and Mac — Nora and Mac flew back on Friday — when Mac beats her to the punch.

"How's she doing?" she coos excitedly. "Is she adjusting?"

"She's a little disoriented right now, but we're hopeful," Mac says frankly. Maggie thinks she can hear some wailing in the background. "The Keefers are coming over; we think she'll do better when she sees kids her own age. Would you like to come for dinner?"

She's speechless for a second. "Sure. Yeah. Do you … do you want me to bring anything?"

"No, just yourself. We'll see you soon."

When she gets there, with a book for Nora and a bottle of wine for Mac, the Keefers are already there; from the looks of it, they've been there a while: the four adults are sitting around the kitchen together, carefully watching the children play in the living room. Nora and Susannah are happily using some sort of beauty-salon station that had materialized in the apartment, while Emerson and Max are coloring on oversized pieces of butcher paper. Nora's sweet-looking, with wide dark eyes and a lightweight blue dress with a button print on it. She's barefoot, with bright pink toes that Maggie suspects Mac painted.

"Oh thank you, thank you, this is all very sweet," Mac says. "She loves reading books so she'll like this very much. She's playing now, so let's not disturb with her an introduction."

"How's she doing?" Maggie asks.

"She's good, I think," Mac says. "She has some nightmares at night, and she's having trouble understanding where her friends are. But she's very well-behaved, and she's beginning to understand some English. She's very shy though — I can't tell if that's because of the new surroundings or just her personality. But she's …"

"She's a snuggler," Sloan supplies. "Total cuddle-nut."

"Cuddle-slut, even," Don says.

"Don!"

"What?" he asks Mac. "_All_ of the kids are twenty feet away, and _none_ of them can understand."

"Yeah, but if Max calls a girl a cuddle-slut at preschool, _you're_ handling that teacher phone call," Sloan remarks.

"Oh. Yeah, no thanks. Cuddle-nut it is."

"That's sweet. She's shy but she's still affectionate," Mac finishes firmly.

"Is the Fourth of July thing still on?" Maggie asks.

"Of course," Mac says.

"Mac's invited an entirely reasonable number of people over," Will says, and Mac rolls her eyes.

"It's a party, people don't _stay_ the whole time," Mac explains, annoyed, and she says, "There is one thing, though, Maggie."

"Oh dear God," Don says, rolling his eyes and getting up from his chair.

"Oh come on," Mac says. Don looks irritated at Mac, Sloan looks torn between the two of them, while Will honestly looks like he could not care less. Maggie wonders how much Will _actually_ likes all this domesticity. "For the sake of fairness and transparency, I wanted to let you know that I would like to invite Jim. He's back; he got back on Thursday. However, I wanted to check with you first, because, well —"

"You mean because he's married? Yeah. No, I'm fine with it."

"You _know_?" Mac says, aghast, as Will leaves the kitchen with an eye roll.

"_You _knew?"

"He was in Pakistan and told me then. How did you know?"

"He had dinner with Neal and Mariah. Mariah noticed the ring," she turns to Don. "Did you know, too?"

"Oh, my god," he raises his arms in a classic _I give up_ pose. "Yes. I'd heard. From Sloan—"

"Uh-uh, from Cory Nicholson," Sloan interrupts.

"From one of Sloan's reporters, and I wanted to make sure," Don amends. He's tense-looking, and shoots Mac another aggrieved look. "We found out accidentally, and didn't want to _say_ anything until we were sure, we weren't withholding information —"

"It's fine," Maggie says, tiredly, because she is so tired of saying those words. "For crying out loud, _please_ stop acting like I'm in seventh grade. I'm an adult. I can't speak for him, but if he's married he's about the closest approximation to an adult that I think he'll ever be." It's true. For all his attributes, Jim had always had a petty, childish streak, and she doubts that has changed. "Now, what are we doing for dinner?"

So it's not a surprise to her at all when Jim opens the door at the Fourth of July party. "Hi, Jim," she smiles patiently when she sees him. "How are you?"

"Good — I'm good," he says, unmoving. "How, um, how are you?"

"I'm good," she smiles. "Can I … come in?"

"Uh, yeah. Of course," he says, swinging the door wide. "How're you?"

"You asked that already," she smiles tightly.

"You're right, I did," he says, "I, uh, it's good. That you're good. Congrats on the new job, that's awesome."

"Thanks," she says. "You too. And congrats on the marriage, too."

"That … wow. Uh. Yeah."

"Neal told me," she says, trying to make it easier for him. "And I meant it. Congratulations."

"Thanks. I thought you meant it," he says. "Uh, thanks."

"I need to give these to Mac. Or Sloan," she says, lifting the platter of cookies she picked up at the Gristedes. "And then I need to find Don and Elliot to talk. Excuse me."

She finds Mac in the kitchen, Nora hooked on her hip and her face buried in Mac's shoulder. "I brought cookies," she announces.

"Wonderful!" Mac says, turning away slightly from Jane Williams. "Look, Nora, here's Maggie, you remember Maggie."

"Hey Nora," she smiles as the girl shifts her head a little to smile at Maggie.

"You can put those in the dining room-one second, Jane, I'll be right back," she smiles, taking Maggie by the arm. "Did you see Jim yet?" she hisses in an overexaggerated whisper.

"I did," Maggie says back in the same voice. "Why are we whispering?"

"Oh, shush," Mac says in a normal voice, as Nora stirs, twisting to look around. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Play Max," Nora says suddenly, very clearly. "Play Max."

"Of course, my darling, he's right here," Mac says, putting her down in front of Max, who's creating something with glue and colored macaroni and yarn with Neal.

"Come on, we're making flags!" he says, grabbing at Nora's hand.

"Alright then," Mac smiles. "I'm just saying, I'm here to make things non-awkward. I want things to be as un-awkward as possible, and personally, I still think what he did was just a _douche _move. I am here for you, sister." She lightly punches Maggie's shoulder.

"Yeah, this isn't awkward at all," Maggie says. "Listen. We're fine. I promise. Now. I need to talk to Don, so. Excuse me."

She chats with Elliot and Don briefly, about whom they might pair as an EP with Elliot. She resists the urge to say, _I told you so_ to Don about this. She sees Sloan, Reese, and Charlie come out of the library, and sees Jim hovering on the edge of the party. Quite frankly, it's unnerving. Her instincts are completely confused as to how to approach this situation. Once they're done, she excuses herself, grabs a very large glass of wine (as well as a half-empty bottle for backup), and heads out to the terrace.

She lays down on a deck chair, her ankles crossed. The deck chair is just around a bend from where most of the guests are, and it's quiet. Thank god. She stares at the potted plants hanging from the glass overhang and contemplates just how badly she's fucked up her life in the last five years. Seeing Jim initially felt like ripping off a band-aid — she had steeled herself to just _get it done with_, to get started on their new normal. She had worried, a little, that she might see him and just _instantly_ want to be with him again. It wasn't that. There was a tug of emotions, to be sure, and a surge of the misplaced anger that had signaled the beginning of their end. But mostly, the jolt had been from the thought of _What would my life be like if I had stayed? If we had worked through it? _That feeling, coupled with the stark juxtaposition of where her life is versus where she had thought her life would go, had driven her to the terrace.

After a short, indeterminate amount of time — maybe ten minutes — she hears voices, and turns slightly to see Don and Sloan headed her way.

"I'm just saying I need to think about it —"

"And I'm just saying it's solid."

"I need to consider what I want to do and what's right for me, and for _us, _rather than what's _easy_. Anyways. You should go help. Will needs you."

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. I'm just going to stay out here. I need some air." Maggie hears a kiss, and then Sloan turns the corner, Emerson in hand. "Maggie. Hey. I … didn't know you were out here."

"I had to get away for a sec."

"Jim?" Sloan blurts sympathetically. "Wait. I'm sorry. That was inappropriate." She settles on the adjacent chair, slides her feet toward her bottom so her body forms a _V_, rests Emma on her hipbones.

"What were you and Don talking about?"

She sighs. "ACN has …. started poking around to see if I wanted to return to the fold."

"Ah," Maggie says. She remembers when Sloan left, what a personal blow it was to Charlie. But she had been overwhelmed with her 7 o'clock timeslot and being able to see Max grow up; plus, she had been continually irritated that coverage of the economy and the debt-ceiling battles were accessories to the real news. "Do you?"

Sloan shifts and focuses on Emerson, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. "There's a lot to consider. I haven't come close to making a decision yet."

"Would you do primetime?"

"No, late afternoon first," she sighs. "I don't know, frankly, so I'm not prepared to discuss it."

"How do you do _it_?" Maggie says suddenly, thinking about all the moving parts of Sloan's life. She can barely put together a coherent grocery list, had fucked up a few _major _chances, and Sloan's balancing a mini-emporium at home.

"Do what?"

"All of _it_. Work, a family, _everything_. All at once," she takes a long sip of her wine.

Sloan looks at her, not disdainfully, mostly like she pities her. "I don't. At all."

"But you do! You have the career! And the … apartment! And the husband! And you two have a _great_ marriage! And the kids! Who are adorable!" she feels her tone getting carried away with the exclamation points, so she takes a deep breath. "I mean, I get you have a nanny, but you guys just always seem so on point. You know where you're _going._" She doesn't verbally contrast it with herself. She doesn't have to.

"Maggie, we both work 60-hour weeks, with hours that don't line up, so that we can provide for those adorable children, who spit and puke and cry and test our patience in pretty un-adorable ways. And while we love them all, we never banked on three kids. If they all get in an argument, we're outnumbered. We're pretty sure they'll kill us in our sleep. Except for when I was on maternity leave, I don't think I've ever done a weekday morning with them. Don misses nine out of every ten bedtimes, and he'll miss more in the future as he continues on his career path. And he hates it. Seriously. I've never seen anyone happier to play whiffle ball with a four year old or have his hair brushed by a one-year-old. I love them to death but he's the natural parent in this relationship. And we see each other for two hours, tops, each day, and there is always a phone or a computer nearby. To make 'it' work, I outsource everything from toilet cleaning to buying my clothes to caring for my children for most of their waking hours. I am incapable of spending twenty minutes at the store to decide which kind of milk I want, so I order it online at 2 a.m. when I can't sleep. I recognize that these are privileged problems to have. But every choice, every day, is a compromise, and I'm fully aware of how much gets traded. And most of them aren't even good compromises for the long term — what works now won't work when they're in school, and if I take this job and Don continues to pursue the jobs he wants, he'll be my boss, which means I could have my career severely curtailed. After spending 60 hours a week for ten years trying to get ahead in a job I love, I could be sidelined. And the marriage — I love him, but it's a relationship. It's work. It can change on a dime. We love each other, sure. We even like each other, still. But I'm terrified that one day I'm going to wake up and not even know him anymore," she shrugs. "But we got in this together, even though we had no clue what we were doing. And you make compromises and you change your path and you make decisions because you love your family and you love your job and you want to do the best you can. So I'm taking it on faith that I know this man and I trust him and trust us to make the right decisions."

"Do you think you two could have dealt with it better?" Maggie asks bravely. "If you had had a miscarriage? Do you think you could have handled it?" Sloan's face contorts, and she hurries to clarify. "Not — I'm not wishing that you hadn't had any of your kids, who are amazing. But say tomorrow. You two had a miscarriage. Could you cope?"

**"At this point? Yes. We have three kids and a dog to keep us tethered," Sloan says, a little harshly. Maggie realizes that it's an inappropriate question. She opens her mouth and shuts it, and then tries again, haltingly. "But ... We've also been together for almost seven years. If this had happened earlier, which I think is your question … I'd like to say yes," it's a bit of a slap, but she keeps listening. "But it depends on timing. And circumstances. We were married when we got pregnant. It was early and there's no good time but it didn't … we were married. I do think that makes a difference. You and Jim had been dating for what, six months, when you go pregnant? Eight months? If we'd gotten pregnant … If we'd gotten pregnant before we had settled and committed and we'd … I don't know. But that's not the point. You can't compare what you guys went through to anybody else and judge your actions by anybody else. You know that, Maggie. You just … All you can do is accept the decisions you made and keep making the decision that feels right." **

Maggie laughs, hollowly, and pours herself more wine. She offers it to Sloan, who declines. Right. "Every decision I make that feels right turns out to be really fucking wrong."

"Hey," Sloan says, tilting her head toward Emma.

"Right. Sorry. Every decision I make turns out to be really wrong."

"No, I think what you mean is that every decision you make has consequences, which is true. No matter what they'll have consequences. But I've never seen you as a person who is purposefully self-destructive. You get carried away by passions, sure. You can get impulsively emotional, yes. You don't always … or you didn't always, address situations or emotions, because you wanted to avoid conflict. And, you know what? It's a long life. Nothing is ever definite. Not until you die, at least, and you've got 50 years left."

"Wow. That's a great pep talk."

"I'm serious. You and Jim dated when you were what, 28? 29? When I was that age, I was engaged to another guy and called the wedding off the week before the wedding. I thought my life was over."

"You were engaged before Don?"

"Yeah. I thought you knew that?"

"Nope."

"Yeah, I was engaged to an analyst at Goldman; we started dating in grad school. But then I caught him sleeping with one of our coworkers six days before the wedding, and I called off the engagement and I quit working at the bank. I got the job at ACN three months later. If you'd asked me when I was 26, I would have told you that at my age, I would be married to that guy, working at a bank, probably wouldn't have any kids."

"What's your point, exactly?"

"That things change and circumstances change, and life is long. What you think is true or your future one day isn't what happens two years later. So right now all these decisions seem like they're wrong, and it's frustrating, but you don't know how they'll actually play out, truly." She shifts, swinging both her legs around to plant on the concrete. "And that you shouldn't blame yourself, or punish yourself."

"I'm not _blaming_ myself, or punishing myself," Maggie protests. "I'm moving on."

"As you should, and nobody's holding that against you," Sloan stands and swings Emerson onto her hip. She ignores the first half of Maggie's statement. "I think it's time that I rescue Neal and Mariah from Max and Susannah. We're glad to have you back in New York, Maggie."

She sits out there alone for another few moments, until she's interrupted again. "Oh. Hey. Sorry," Jim says. "I just … I wanted some space. But … I'll go."

"No, it's fine," she says, standing and picking up the empty bottle of wine. Whoops. That went quickly. "I've been out here for a while. I need to go in and, you know. Be social. The space is yours." She walks past him. She's not sure what will happen if they're alone.

"Maggie," he calls, and she turns. "I … Hi."

She chuckles. "Hi, Jim."

"I just wanted to say, it was a total coincidence, that we came back at the same time. But, you know, maybe that's good. You've moved and I've moved on, and … you look good, great, actually, and you seem like you're doing really well, which is awesome. Don and Elliot and Mac speak so highly of what you're doing at ACN. I just … I hope we can be friends. After everything."

"I'm friends," she says, crossing her arms. "But … yeah. It's … It's good to see you. And really, congrats on the marriage. That's awesome."

"So we'll … see each other?"

"We work in the same building for the same organization and all of our mutual friends are the same. Yeah, I think we'll see each other," she says. "But like I said, I've been outside long enough. I'm being rude. I'll see you in there," she smiles.

She heads back in, joins Tess and Tamara and Charlotte and Neal's game of gin rummy and feels almost normal. Even so, when everyone's phones start to chime with a news alert, and she and more than half of the party are forced to cut the celebrating short to go cover a terror attack in northern Africa, she's almost relieved.

She wonders what that says about her _real_ emotional state.

**She suspects, given that she just found terrorism to be a welcome distraction from her personal problems, that it doesn't say much good. **


	8. Chapter Seven -- Don

So this ... is a whopper of a chapter. I really needed to kind of deconstruct Don and Sloan's relationship regarding the job offer, so I took my time (and many many words) getting it spelled out. On the plus side, we get Mrs. Lansing, and the kids, and Reese and Charlie, who are like Click and Clack right now, and awesome.

I'm not sure if the evolution (devolution?) is entirely in character, so would love to hear what you think. I promise (promise!) that the next chapter will not be so long. I'm now holding myself to 4,000 word minimums. Promise.

_A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them." -Rilke_

* * *

_July 4_

One month into the new job, and Don Keefer can fully admit that he's not on top of the motherfucking world.

He knew that it would be this way. During his interviews, during endless conversations with Reese and Charlie and Mrs. Lansing, when he had to convince them that he was smart enough and experienced enough to do this, it had become clear that ACN, while still giant and influential, was on the tipping point of insignificance and mediocrity. It didn't pull in the ratings. It didn't have the niche appeal of MSNBC or Fox. It didn't have a broadcast network's buffer of a scripted division (though even that was small comfort when he was at NBC). It wasn't the Internet, and it didn't do GIFs of cat memes. Most troubling, they didn't really have an identity, beyond permanently second or third place. They were an ossified, bureaucratic mess, a cable news network tolerated because of their age and their size, a sinking, slow-moving cruise ship of a company. He knew that it would be long hours just doing _this_ job. But having to manage Will's departure and produce _News Night_ at the same time was making it damn near impossible. He was coming in at 8 and leaving at 11.

He had three major tasks at ACN: First, find the on-air and production talent to halt ACN's slow slide into journalistic oblivion by creating hard-hitting, cutting-edge journalism; second, get ACN consistently in the top two finishes; third, drive innovation in the digital realm so they didn't get fucked with their pants on. Convincing Elliot to come back to eight was a great start: He had the reputation that brought viewers and also allowed them to do _news_, mixed with the personal stuff that he was great at; it also bought them time to deepen the bench elsewhere. He'd been wasted in the morning, and he knew it. A few scheduling concessions and an impassioned plea from Don to Jeannie had been enough to convince him to switch.

It was exhausting. Which was why he was so damned happy to have a four-day weekend for the Fourth. He and Sloan had considered going away, but then Mac wanted Sloan at this party and honestly, they were too tired to think of a destination. But it meant that he got to make blueberry pancakes with his son, at nine in the morning. Which was pretty damn nice.

"Dad, are we unemployed again?" Max asks happily, mixing the berries into the batter.

"No, bud, it's a holiday. It's America's birthday, like what we talked about. Remember?"

"Nope," Max says. "Are there presents?"

"There are fireworks," he replies.

"And there's the Field Day at Hippo Park with Group, remember Max?" Sloan says, holding hands with both girls as they toddle in. They're both really beginning to get the hang of the walking thing, but Emerson tends to go too fast and ends up injured or screaming, while Susannah tends to get anxious and cries and just wants to be picked up. Both he and Sloan tend to just grab them and walk. They should stop that.

"Aw, man, Max, you're gonna _love_ Field Day," Don says happily. "There are games, and your friends are going to be there, and there might be prizes."

"So, I actually don't think I can make Field Day," Sloan informs him, putting the girls into high chairs. "Mac says she needs help setting up for the party at noon."

"Alright. You want me to take the girls? So you can help out?"

"Why don't I take one of them? Divide and conquer."

"Sounds good," he says, handing her two tiny plates of pancakes to cut up for the girls. "Which one?"

She stares at the twins. "Who wants to go to the park?" she asks.

"Park!" Emerson says. Susannah stuffs pancake in her mouth.

"Emerson it is," Sloan smiles.

"Is America gonna have a birthday cake?" Max asks.

His parents look at each other. "I don't know," Sloan says, swiping a bite of pancake from Susannah's plate. "Mac and Will are going to have all the food. Maybe ice cream."

"I feel like popsicles are standard," Don shrugs. "Maybe we'll get popsicles."

"Possicles!" Susannah chimes in affirmatively. Sloan tries to get her to take a bite of a raspberry, but Annie shrieks and pushes her mom's hand away.

"You know what, not a battle I am fighting today," Sloan says, popping it in her own mouth.

"What time are we supposed to be at Will and Mac's?"

"Most people are coming at four, so just head over after Field Day ends at three?" Sloan steals two more berries from the girls. "Do we have any cereal left? I'm starving and we'll have enough sweets at the party."

"Live a little," he grumbles affectionately as she rises, chomping on his own extra-sweet pancake.

"Reese and Charlie are still coming, right?" she asks as she pours herself some cereal.

"Yeah," he says. "Reese is bringing Roan, so we'll finally get to meet her. I can't wait." The sooner Reese Lansing realizes his mother isn't handing the company over to him until he produces grandchildren to distract her in her retirement, the better for Reese's career (and personal life). Until then, Don is going to continue to watch his dating adventures with amusement. "She just returned from shooting a car-wax commercial in Japan." Roan sounds fantastic. He could not make this shit up.

"Can I get a car, Mom?" Max asks.

"Absolutely," she says. "We can go to the toy store tomorrow," she teases.

"Mom!" Max says, in what they've dubbed his "exasperated teenager" voice. He's also stopped calling them 'Mama' and 'Daddy' in the last few months, an evolution that makes Don surprisingly bereft. "Not a vroom-vroom car. A real one!"

"Oh. A _real_ car? Sure. When you start shaving, we'll talk. Sorry bud," she smiles lightly. She turns to her husband as Max disappointedly digs back into his pancakes. "Do you know — this is weird. Do you know how serious they are?"

"What do you mean? _You_ know ACN's serious! Charlie made a housecall." They were now at the trickiest points of the negotiations: Charlie and Reese assumed that Sloan would _just come_ back if they offered her a fair deal, since Bloomberg was cutting her out of the most basic stuff, and because he was at ACN. He knew that wasn't true at all. The worst mistake to make with Sloan was to assume you had the upper hand or that a particular outcome was inevitable-it was one of the few things she was super-sensitive about, a perception that she would just _do_ something and not _decide_ something. She would dig in her heels and get obstinate and get offended, and he wasn't in a position to talk her down for this one, since she would (correctly) point out his professional and personal stake in her decision. No, she had to make this one on her own, and he had to support it, as a husband.

But it was stressful — ACN _was_ a better fit for her, for her goals and for her journalistic perspective, and they had a pretty small window to make it happen. Once Charlie retired and if he took over, it would become infinitely more complicated. No, if she wanted to make the jump back, it was now or never. He recognized that she felt that it might have something to do with him and she didn't quite earn it, but that was also a real-life consequence of marrying someone in the exact same field: Sometimes your careers bumped into each other.

"No, but I mean, ready to talk numbers and give me an idea of what would be in a contract. It's the only fair way to make a decision."

"Do you _really_ want to tell you?"

"I just think it's weird, that you know more about a nascent job offer than I do," she complained. "It feels very …"

"Nope, don't say it."

"What?"

"You're going for condescending or patriarchal, I can feel it," he says. "It's not either of those. It's just … the reality. Of us working in the same field. In the positions we're in and that we want."

"You're saying that if the situations were reversed, you wouldn't be bothered? Gender _and _job."

"Honestly? I am. There's no conspiracy or favoritism or … I don't even know … here. I just started six weeks ago. Charlie's been trying to get you back for _three_ years. I don't know how many other ways to reassure you, but I will keep trying."

"I'm just _saying_, it looks …"

"Is everything OK? You would tell me, right? If something weren't OK?" he interrupts.

"What … what do you mean?"

"It's just, this is … not usual for you, to think that you're getting a fantastic job offer because of anything _but_ your merits. It _never _occurs to you. You're impressive. I express that enough, right? I … appreciate you enough, right? Because you're being …" he wants to say _insecure_, but that won't go over well, "You know what you deserve; you have always known what you deserve. But you're acting like you don't."

She looks struck, like she hadn't considered that before. "_You're_ wonderful," she says honestly, pecking him on the lips and emphasizing the 'you're.' "I'm going to get the girls ready."

"But you didn't answer the question," he mutters as she leaves him and Max in the kitchen. "Alright, bud. Men clean up their messes. Let's do the dishes."

"Can I make soap bubbles?" Max jumps out of his booster seat.

It's good to be home.

Group goes _excellently,_ minus the part where Emerson drops an entire popsicle on his shirt. At Will and Mac's, Sloan's worried that they look too matchy-matchy (despite the fact that she's the one who dressed one twin as 'stars' and the other as 'stripes') and Jim is there early, for Mac to 'apologize, or whatever' to him.

"Ready to start Monday?" he asks, popping the cap off a beer.

"Yeah," he says. "I found a place, so I'm all set. It's good to be back."

"Is, um, Alicia coming to New York anytime soon?"

"Yeah, she'll be arriving in early August. It'll be great to have her in town."

"Don! My man," Charlie says, announcing his entrance. "And Jim Harper! In the flesh."

Soon enough, he sees Elliot, Jeannie, and their girls arrive. "Don! Don!" Amelia, their eight-year-old, says. "Did you bring the twins?"

"Legally, I have to," he says. "They're with Neal."

"Awesome!" Amelia runs off.

"Thanks for asking!" Elliot calls.

"I can't believe you made me _come_," Ava, their 12-year-old, sighs. "It's all babies and old people." She uses one hand as a visor against her adolescent mortification.

"Let's go talk to Mac and meet Nora. And look, there's Anderson, let's go say hi," Jeannie steers her away.

"Teenagers," Don says. "They sound _awesome_."

"Yeah, at this point she'd notice if we tried to give her back," Elliot says drily. "Only seven more years, I've heard. How're you? Every time I see you at work you're tense."

"It's a much-needed four-day weekend," he acknowledges.

"Sloan's talking to Reese today?"

"Yeah, and she's being weird about it."

"Weird?"

"Yeah. This is like … defying explanation." He shook his head. "Anyways. Have you seen Maggie? I want to chat about EPs with her, see what her take is."

Elliot turns his head, and Don follows. "There she is," he points, and he sees a supremely uncomfortable Maggie talking with Mac. "That looks like a fun conversation." Mac bops Maggie in the shoulder (oh, hell, they're talking about Jim) and then Maggie bolts for them.

"Maggie, we were just talking about you," he says, before realizing that can and probably will set her off.

Instead, she just smiles tightly. "Hopefully about what an amazing and talented senior producer I am."

"Actually along those lines," he recovers. "Let's pick an EP, people."

Elliot's opinion basically comes down to "Mike Finley, and only Mike Finley," which means, starting Monday, they're going to have to convince his old second-in-command to leave NBC as well. Another fantastic task ahead.

Maggie excuses herself once they're done, and he turns to see Sloan heading toward him. "We were having a conversation, and I decided that I wanted you there. Got a sec?"

"Sure," he says. "But why do you want me?"

"Because professionally, this is a negotiation that you should be involved with. Charlie would have you there with anybody else. And personally, I trust you to put mine and our interests above ACN's, and I'm showing you that."

"Is that what all this is about?" he asks, astonished. "Is that seriously what this is about?" Because if she was _saying _that she trusted him, at one point, she had doubted it.

"Will you just come?"

In the library, the sounds of the party are muted as he leans against the green leather couch. Sloan says, "We were really just getting started. Gentlemen, please continue."

"Right," Reese says, irritated. "I mean, this will come as no surprise to either of you." Don can feel Sloan's eyes watching him, and he's annoyed, because she's being pretty distrustful for no reason about the whole damn thing. "We want you back at ACN, Sloan. This is us, making a play, for _you_. You're one of the most popular anchors in daytime and you've got the social media footprint to boot. But most importantly, you bring clout and gravitas, and we're a network sorely in need of both. My mother, god bless her soul, is going to stay in this world for a long time, but she's not going to be at the network much longer. We need to shore up talent and prestige for when that day comes. We want you."

"First off, thank you. ACN took a chance on me a long time ago, and I know it. You launched my journalism career. For which I am grateful."

"You were well worth the investment," Reese says.

"Thank you. Second, I do want to be clear: I haven't made any decisions yet, and I'm not making it today. I went to Bloomberg for a pretty specific purpose, which was serious coverage of the economy, among other issues. ACN's track record has been abysmal over the last couple years, and it's gotten plenty of stories wrong — wrong suspects in terrorist attacks, hasty breaking news, incorrect election calls, race-baity trial coverage, limited _real _non-political news or international news. It's tough to turn around a big boat. I want to hear the plan to make sure I'm not coming to a network that's falling apart. If I come."

"Well, we just hired a new director of international news. He's supposed to be good, or so I've heard," Charlie interrupts.

"And the rest of it I'm going to correct," Don says, studying her, from the corner. "It's not an easy balance to get news right and to get ratings, and it has been off the last couple years. And yeah, dayside's had the hardest time striking that balance. But we know it and we're changing it. I don't believe it when people say only polemics want news. We're going to make it happen."

She shifts. "Where are you thinking of putting me?"

"We're prepared to offer you two hours in the afternoon, three to five, or four to six, and a seat at the table for major ACN broadcasts — breaking news, elections; really, whenever you want to move there," Reese says. "We see your show as a serious mix of the stuff people just _have_ to know, in the right context. It's the afternoon, they've been stuck in their offices all day, work is finally slowing down, and they want to hear the top stories of the day. It's not a space for fluff or sensationalism. You'll have a top team, of your own choosing. We'll set aside 600K for salaries to bring on three producers of your choice, including the EP. But you're the managing editor, and you'd have free reign on the show's content, provided you hit your mandate."

"What's the mandate?" Sloan asks.

"800,000 viewers, a 2+ share in 18-49s," Reese says.

"That's a top two-finish every day. That's right below Fox. And Fox gets all the cray-crays."

"We'll give you time to build to there," Charlie says. "And you're pulling basically those numbers. At lunchtime. On _Bloomberg_. That's not going to be hard. You're going to be our main dayside anchor, and you'll be there as we start tackling the big, structural issues to overhaul coverage."

"And, just to be totally upfront, we'd like to put in an option for primetime, in three years. We know that you've got kids to consider, and we respect that," Reese adds. "But I'm going to be taking over this company soon, and I want you to be one of the main faces of ACN."

"The girls are only going to be four in three years; do you _know _when a four-year-old's bedtime is? Seven-thirty."

"Sloan, let's not get ahead of ourselves thinking about what our lives are going to be in three years," Don says, slipping into husband mode, which is potentially a mistake.

She doesn't, though. "What's your salary offer?"

"How serious are you about considering the jump?" Reese counters.

"I think an offer has the potential to sway me," she says. "That, and your official position on earthquake coverage."

"Three million, and you can report from the studio. We'd like you to start in November with the midterm coverage," Reese says. "Think about it, Sloan. " He exits, presumably to find Roan (who is just as fabulous as Don imagined).

Charlie hesitates. "I'm legacy-building here, Sabbith," he says. "I've worked at ACN since 1969. I'm not asking because I like you."

"I know, sir," she says.

He leaves, too.

She looks down, her arms folded. "I really am going to need to be convinced that ACN isn't going to become a CNN 2.0."

"So you'll think about it?"

"Yeah," she says. "I already was."

"You know you know most of the plans already, right?" he says as they head out.

"As your wife. Not as your potential anchor," she says. "It's different." She inhales deeply. "I need air."

"I'll come with you."

"Sloan, Don, I thought you might want Emerson back," Jeannie Hirsch says, semi-apologetically, as they head outside. "She kind of got away from Amelia, and Gary had her —"

"Oh, God," Don says, because Gary should _never_ have a child with him, ever.

"I know," she smiles. "I would _love_ to keep her, but I've got a twelve-year-old that's _acting_ like a two-year-old. I'd much prefer her though."

"No, no, of course. Thanks for taking care of her," Sloan says, taking Emerson and letting her slide down to walk. He looks around and sees Susannah and Max still happily playing with Neal. "You were trying to play with Gary, huh, Em?"

"Gar-Gar," she says. "Play ball." They exchange a look, wondering what the hell that means.

"Let's go outside, Em," she says.

"I want sun!" she says affirmatively.

He and Sloan each take one of Emerson's hands as they head out. "You know, from a purely self-interested point of view, it's a good offer," he says. It's true. It's double what she's making now, and more than what he's currently making. And Manhattan private schools are expensive.

"I know. I need to mull it over."

"Right. But I don't think you need to mull over the actual _offer,"_ he says as they walk down the terrace.

"No, but I need to mull over my career, and the kids, and our families."

"Is _that_ what this is about? The working-mom thing?"

"I mean, partially, yes." He's frustrated; what's the other _partially_? He's completely bewildered by her thought process and just wants _in_.

"You know we're in this together, right? We said partners, with the kids, with jobs, everything. I know it's been tough with the new job, but it's temporary. Once Elliot switches over and we get an EP for him, I'll be around more."

"I'm just saying I need to think about it —"

And, she's evading. Back to square one. "And I'm just saying it's solid."

"I need to consider what I want to do and what's right for me, and for _us, _rather than what's _easy_. Anyways. You should go help. Will needs you." she turns to face him, squinting in the sun as she swings Emma onto her hip.

He hesitates, because he would like to get to the bottom of whether or not she trusts him on this, and whether or not she's worried about their balance, but she looks serious and distant, so he just kisses her cheek and heads over to the grill. Will is happily flipping burgers in a stupid apron.

As he takes the spatula and a beer from Will, he asks, "Did you ever had any trust issues with Mac, when she was your producer?"

Will stares at him. "Are you fucking with me, or did you just fall and hit your head on something hard?"

"Right," he says after a beat. That was dumb. "Sorry."

He's helping Nora and Max make plates up for Mac and Sloan when Maggie pops her head out. "Either of you check your phones?" she asks.

"Not in the last five minutes; did the world blow up?" he asks, helping Nora squeeze out ketchup.

"Close. Terror attack at a movie theatre in Algiers that a lot of American diplomats and tourists frequent."

"Seriously?"

"No, I just thought a terror attack on the Fourth of July would be funny," she says, rolling her eyes. "Let's go. We need to get to the studio."

"Hold on a second," Will says. "I have to get these hamburgers off the grill. Charlie! Get him. Is he still here?" Maggie disappears.

"Don," Sloan says, sticking her head out. "There's a terrorist attack —"

"Movie theatre in Algiers, I know."

"I need to call Rowan," she says unnecessarily, since the phone is already pressed to her ear. "I'm probably going to need to go in. Are Keiko or Cristina in town this weekend? Hi — Rowan, can you hear me?"

They're not, so he's already dialing his younger half-sister, Lily, who is their backup babysitter. She needs the cash, they need the hands. "Hi, Lil?" he says, when she picks up.

"Bro-ski! Happy Fourth of July! Isn't America _wonderful_?" she slurs expressively.

"You're drunk," he says, heart falling.

"I _am _a legal adult," she says. "I _knooooow_ that is hard for you, sometimes, because it makes you confront your own mortality, but I am exercising my hard-earned right to party. On this lovely, American day, for which many men and women have died for our freedom."

"No, Lily, I need a sitter. There's been a thing, and Sloan and I both need to go into work. Can you … are you capable of sobering up?"

"Yeah, I'll be right in," Sloan hangs up her phone. "Is that Lily? Is she drunk? She is _not_ watching our kids if she is."

"What _kind_ of thing are talking about?"

"Terrorist attack in North Africa."

"Oh, my god. Where are you guys? I can totally be there." Sloan is shaking her head.

"I think we're going to get someone else to take the kids, Lils," he says. "Have a fun Fourth."

"Nope. I am _there_ for you. Where are you? I'm in Williamsburg; I can be anywhere in half an hour."

He hesitates. "We're at Mac and Will's. West 58th Street. I'm going to text you the address, alright? Thanks, Lil."

Sloan stares at him, astonished. "Did you just agree to let a drunk twenty-three-year-old watch our kids? Because I have a few objections to that."

"She's not … that drunk. We'll have Mac decide whether she's ready to take them, alright? Do you need to go in?"

"Yeah, I do."

"You should head over."

"Why can't we have Jeannie or Mac watch them?"

"That's … not a bad idea."

"See? Two seconds of thought, mister," Sloan says, slightly exasperated.

"We need to _go_," Maggie says. She's on the phone calling in everyone she can find, and he should be doing that as well.

"You head over, alright?" he says. "Get everyone in. I'll be there right behind you." Maggie looks hesitant, but heads back in yelling, "Come on, people!"

"Don, Sloan, if you guys need me to look after the kids, I think the party is still going to go on," Mac says. "Only about half of you are leaving. It's not a big deal. Neal's staying, I'm staying, Jeannie's staying. Just leave the diaper bag and they'll be fine. Sloan, you really need to go."

"Alright," she says, swiftly kissing him. "Call me when you get off?"

"Yeah," he says as she exits. He turns to Mac. "So Aunt Lily is coming over, just so you have an extra set of hands. However, Aunt Lily _might_ be a little tipsy, so just keep her here and make sure she doesn't drop one of the girls? I mean, you guys can still watch the fireworks, right?" He should hopefully be able to hand coverage over by then, but you never know.

"Got it. Go to work."

He's saying goodbye to the kids — who are _not_ having it, as per usual — when Jim comes up. "Mind if I start the new position a few days early?"

He doesn't hesitate. Jim has most of the contacts in that area. "Absolutely. Let's go."

By the time they hit the studio, Will's putting his earpiece in and Maggie's in the control room, having four conversations on three phones. Jim's got the embassy in Algiers on the phone and they've got everybody who's in the city back in the studio, including several tank-topped associate producers. He grabs his headset, telling Maggie, "I'm going to need an update in about three minutes." She nods, and he turns to Herb. "How long until we're ready to switch over?"

"Two more minutes."

"Will, did Charlotte give you the latest updates?" he flicks through the notes he's been handed, then grabs his phone when he sees Jim calling in. "Yeah?"

"Embassy sources — two, they're good — are saying that there are at least eight dead so far, don't know if they're American or not, and up to fifty injured."

"Get me bomb details, alright?" he hangs up. "Will, Jim's sources are saying that there are eight dead so far, up to fifty injured but that number isn't steady, no clue if they're American or not."

"We're good to go," Herb says.

"Live in 30," he yells. "Somebody get that text loaded!" He turns to Maggie. "Now that Jim's back, who's our closest correspondent in the area?"

She hesitates. "Mick is in Rome on vacation. He's a two-hour flight away."

"He's a _European _correspondent. He doesn't speak Arabic. Where's Jhumpra?"

"Tel Aviv. It's an eight-hour trip. We can get a translator for Mick. Plus, he speaks French and so do most of the elites."

He sighs. It's not the best. "Tell Jim to make this happen," he says.

"I can do it," she replies.

"_No._ Jim has the contacts on the ground. This isn't the time to be stubborn. I don't care if you _text_ him, just make sure he knows."

"Fine," she says, walking straight out of the control room."

"— Reports of a bomb exploding at a movie theatre in Algiers, Algeria. It's a venue frequented by Americans living in the capital city, though we don't — again, I stress, we don't — know if any of those present during the attacks were Americans. Sources in the American Embassy in Algiers believe that there are eight dead, with as many as fifty injured. Those numbers, of course, are preliminary —" Will rambles on in the background, and he nods affirmatively. This guy's going to be tough to replace.

Jim bursts in. "Did Maggie find you?"

"What? No. Listen. I have the chief of security at the American Embassy, if we want him to speak."

"What? Yes. Put him through. Will? We've got —"

"Matt Crispin."

"—Matt Crispin, chief of security at the American Embassy in Algiers, on the phone. Patching him through now."

Before he knows it he looks up and it's eight-thirty. They've been repeating facts for the last hour, so he feels comfortable turning to Maggie and saying, "Can you handle this now?"

She nods. "You've got a half hour until the fireworks. Go watch with Max. Tell him I say hi."

Back at Mac's, he finds Sloan sitting in front of one of those TVs, a wiped-out Annie starfished across her torso, Emma curled up next to her. She looks peaceful. "You just get back?"

"Yeah. Nothing more to report," she shrugs. "Lily is with Ava. Ava thinks she's the coolest, apparently. And Max is over there with Neal. I think he likes Neal better than us. What if this is a conspiracy of Neal's and he's totally going to kidnap our kid?"

He carefully runs his hands under Emma and scoops her up, like a sack of potatoes. She flops against his shoulder, readjusting herself before falling back deeper into sleep. "I think it's nice that we have nice friends."

"Daddy! You're back. Neal says it's time for the fireworks," Max says, running up. He wrinkles his nose at his sisters. "We get to watch right?"

"Yeah, they're far away. The girls won't wake up," he says.

"Do you remember them from last year, Max?" Sloan asks.

"Not really," he admits. "But I was only three then. That was little, right?"

She laughs. "You're right. You're a lot bigger now." Outside, they find two lawn chairs draped in a blanket each, and they set the girls on one, rolling them up like pigs in a blanket. Then the three of them pile onto the remaining lounger, him in back, Sloan in his arms, Max in Sloan's.

"Where are the fireworks gonna be?" Max asks. "They're like sparkles in the sky, Neal says."

"They're going to be that way," Sloan points, kissing his temple softly. "Over the river."

Max settles back. "America has the best birthday party ever."

"Hey, look, they're starting," Don says, pointing to the skyline. "See 'em, Max?"

"Whoa," Max says, standing up abruptly. Sloan leans forward — away from Don — and grabs his hips to steady him. "Nora! You see them?" he yells.

"Big," Nora says from the chair where she's with Mac. "Yes."

"They're so shiny," Max says rapturously. "I love fireworks."

The show is over in twenty minutes, and Max is asleep in Sloan's arms in twenty-two. "Not quite the Fourth of July we had planned, huh?" she asks, leaning back. They'll move soon enough.

He wraps his arms around her and Max, eyes on the still-slumbering girls, and goes, "No. But it was pretty us."

An indeterminate amount of time later, Lily comes up to them. "I'm going to head back out to Brooklyn," she says. "Do you want help getting home first, though?"

"Yeah," Sloan says as she struggles to get up without waking Max. She slowly swings him over to her hip. He's so big now that his legs dangle past her knees.

"I'll take one of the girls," Lily offers, moving to grab Annie.

"The bjorn's inside," he says as he lifts Em, who makes an unintelligible noise before falling asleep. "And the car's in the garage."

"I'll just carry her down," Lily says. "Where are the bags and everything?"

"Also inside," Sloan says.

"I'll grab them," Lily says. "You guys say goodnight to Mac." She tilts her head toward their clutch of desk chairs, and they head that way.

"We're leaving," Sloan says softly. Nora is sleeping on top of Mac. "Don't get up. Thanks for having us over."

"Sorry terrorism happened," Don adds.

Mac waves them away sleepily. "Unavoidable," she smiles.

They fall asleep before they can really talk, and Sloan's up with the kids the next morning — she likes doing wake-ups since she gets them so infrequently — but his phone buzzes him up at 8 anyways. He blinks four times when he sees the name on the screen. "Hello?" he asks, confused.

"Don. How are you?" the unmistakable voice of the one and only Leona Lansing greets him.

"Mrs. Lansing. I'm — I'm well. How are you?" Shit. She should be in Southampton, he's positive.

"Pretty good. I was at this fabulous Fourth of July party last night and tried to talk to Kanye West about the divorce, you know, but he was only speaking in iambic pentameter. So fucking pretentious," she sighs. "I did see Beyonce and Gwyneth doing shots together though. Would love to know when they made up."

"Wouldn't we all?" he says in a deadpan tone, scratching the nape of his neck. What does she _want_?

"Right," she chuckles. "I've decided that I want to hear yours and Reese's plans for my company."

"Alright, well, I can put together a presentation for you by Monday," he starts, with the sinking feeling that his weekend with the kids just disappeared.

"No, I've had enough of those. I've called Reese, and he's coming down. You need to, as well. Bring Sabbith and the rugrats; there's plenty of room. Maybe I'll call up Charlie as well; he'll be feeling left out, I suppose."

He hits his head against the headboard. There's no way he's getting out of this.

Three hours later, they're en route to Southampton. "Maybe we should get beach house," Sloan muses, staring out the window. She'd taken his absurd request much better than he anticipated.

"You physically hate being out of the city. You describe yourself as an 'indoor kid.' You really think you're going to enjoy the beach?" he teases.

"It'd be nice to have the space," she rebuts.

"We have a _two-story_ apartment in Manhattan. Four thousand square feet. Five bedrooms. A home office _and _a media center. It doesn't get much roomier than that."

"_You're_ the one who would like it best, pal. Why the objections?"

He shrugs. "Let's pay more of this one down," he says. Buying a second apartment and renovating both so extensively to get the two-story apartment had _not_ been cheap. "Plus, we have my family's place in Cape May and your parents' place in Carmel if we ever want to borrow something for a weekend."

"Yes, let's just fly to Carmel for two days," she mocks, but the subject's dropped.

Mrs. Lansing's place is a palatial white clapboard estate, with a pool and two tennis courts and a paddock with three honest-to-god horses visible before they even get out of the car. Sloan's jaw visibly drops when they get out of the car. "You sure you don't want a house in the Hamptons?" she asks again.

"You're gonna have to negotiate a way higher salary," he retorts as they carry the kids in.

"Sloan. Don," Mrs. Lansing, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses, says from the front porch. "Welcome. Charlie's making Long Island iced teas."

"Let's get the kids settled first," Don says.

"Bonita will show you to your rooms," she says with a wave of her hand.

There's a nursery, clearly waiting for Reese, for the kids. They unload all of their stuff, and Max insists on changing into his swim trunks. Bonita leads them all back to the pool, where there's a lunch spread already out, and Roan is blinking, confused and probably hungover, in the sunlight.

"I want to thank you all for coming," Mrs. Lansing starts, holding up her Bloody Mary. "As you employees of mine are well aware, ACN is sliding, and I'm sick of it. I want money. And I want viewers. So I want solutions. And I figured, inspiration is easier to come by at the beach than in Midtown. So your house is my house, and I want a plan by the end of the weekend."

Don grew up comfortable, and has long been able to pay his bills. He knows that he's lucky that they're in a place where he and Sloan can hire fantastic, multilingual nannies, and have a housekeeper to help out. But they've got nothing on Mrs. Lansing. There's a staff of at least five there at all times. Someone carries the diaper bag when he and Sloan are struggling to get the kids out to the pool. Someone refills his glass when he and Reese are spitballing in the sunroom. When Sloan explains that Emma is really only eating peaches these days and no other fruits, the fruit appears. It's all utterly bizarre.

He, Reese, and Charlie spend most of Friday after lunch and Saturday in the library, quietly pow-wowwing over the future of the network. Nobody ever quite _agrees_, but they make progress. There's agreement on what the lineup and corporate and news priorities. Sloan and the kids spend both days cycling between the pool and the beach. He's not sure what Mrs. Lansing does.

"Have you figured out why she decided to invite us up here?" Sloan asks Saturday night when the kids are asleep.

"To work," he shrugs, briefly glancing up from his Kindle.

"Yeah, but it seems … like there's an ulterior motive. Or something," she muses.

"It's work. This is _my job_ now."

"I'm not saying _that_. I _get_ that, alright?" they haven't talked about the ACN offer all weekend, and he wonders if now is the time. "It just seems very out-of-character for Mrs. Lansing."

He shrugs, then smirks. "I've learned to stop questioning the motivations of the myriad beautiful, smart, powerful women I am surrounded with. I'm just along for the ride."

"I've trained you well, young Padawan," she teases, then kisses him lightly. "You know what, I forgot to make my tea. Do you want hot chocolate?"

"No, but I could eat something. I'll go down," he says.

"You sure?" she says as she settles deeper into the pillows. "Thanks."

He's boiling some water when a voice asks, "Couldn't sleep either?"

He jumps, more than a little self-conscious at Mrs. Lansing seeing him in his shorts and a t-shirt. But she doesn't seem to mind that she's in a silk bathrobe and slippers, so he tries to play it cool. "Not quite," he says. "Sloan likes to have tea before bed. Even when it's 100 degrees out."

"So you volunteered to do so," she surmises. "She's a capable woman, you know."

Don's always been a big believer in feminism, but mostly a believer in the fact that merit is gender-blind, so the last several days have left him at the end of his rope. "I know that. I'm not sure how me making tea for her _diminishes_ that. We're partners. I do things for her without it being a power struggle or a … statement."

She smiles ruefully, dodging the question. "No marriage is ever a true partnership, Don. It all balances out in the end, if you're lucky, but someone always owe a little bit more, loves a little bit more. How are you liking my estate?"

"It's very nice," he says, testing Sloan's tea. "Why are we here, though?" he blurts out.

"I want a plan, for my company," she reiterates.

"No, seriously, though —"

"I want a plan. For my company," she says. "You think that Charlie's the only one retiring soon? You think you were brought back to replace _Charlie_? You've already done that. You're doing that job in all but name already."

"Charlie is still the president of news. He is still doing his job."

"My dear boy," she says. "When I step down — much to my son's relief — he'll move up to President and CEO of AWM. And then who will be president of the network? It's not like he's produced a Prince William to step into the role. Or, hell, even a Prince _George_."

He's momentarily distracted from by her Windsor analogy to realize — "this was a test run for _Reese's _job?"

"Yes. You know how light the bench is. Who else but you?"

"That's a ringing endorsement."

"That's better than most usually get from me," she says. "Nothing is decided, obviously. I still don't know when I'm retiring. I keep waiting for grandchildren, but now I'm thinking, maybe I _give_ him the job and step back, and that'll do it. But I wanted to see you two actually work together." she picks up her glass of water. "Have a good night. Tell Sabbith to enjoy her tea."

Well, fuck.

He keeps his conversation with Mrs. Lansing to himself the next day, as they wrap up their brainstorming sessions and all take off back to Manhattan (or Connecticut, in the Skinners' case), and as they eat sushi and get the kids, tuckered out after a wedding of sand and swimming, into bed early. As he and Sloan flop down on the couch, though, he asks, "Are we partners?"

She's got her head in his lap, and she just laughs without looking up. "We're _married_. It's a few years late to ask that question."

"That didn't actually answer my question," he says, and something in his voice makes her sit up and take him seriously.

"I … don't know what you mean. Do we split things equally every day? No. But do we try to in the long run? Yes, I think so. And we make big decisions together, so yes, I count that. I think of you before I make plans and I'm raising kids with you so, yes, you're my partner. Why?"

"Mrs. Lansing said something … you know what, nevermind. But, actually, we haven't made the ACN job offer decision together."

"I haven't _made _a decision. I don't even know what I think about it. How can I ask you what you think about it?"

"I don't know, to help you figure out what you think about it? Just a guess," he says. "It's _clearly_ bugging you, and I can't figure out why. Do you trust me? I can't tell. Is this a work-life-mom balance thing? I can't tell. And if we _are_ partners, it should be neither of those things."

She stares at him. "I don't know what to tell you."

"I need you to say something. I need you to _tell_ me how you're feeling about it, and why. Because you're upset about it, and I can't figure out why."

"What happens if my show flops?" she finally says, after a long beat. "What happens if my show flops, or I say something radically offensive on air, or do something that ACN doesn't _like_? I move back to ACN, you move into Charlie's role —"

"It could actually be Reese's role," he confesses, regretfully. He owes it to her, since it's sounding like her major objections are, fundamentally, a trust thing.

"_What?_" she yells involuntarily. "Reese's job?"

"That's another thing Mrs. Lansing brought up last night."

"Jesus, you two had a hell of a conversation in that kitchen," she snarks. "She wants you for _Reese's_ job?"

"You know, it's a _good thing_, for me," he points out.

She's stricken. "I know that. I'm sorry." She sits down. "I need to process."

"What is there to _process_? It's something, a possibility, way in the future. Nothing has happened yet. But I wanted you to know."

She purses her lips and does that thing where she makes herself make as small as possible. She runs her hands through her hair. "This … is what I am talking about. I move to ACN, and all I can see is problems. I … mess up a story, or I disagree with ACN, and you're my _boss_ and my _husband._ What if it doesn't work out? What if you have to fire me, or move me, for the good of the network? And between that, and my dad being at the Fed — I'm done. I'm _untouchable_. Bloomberg bumps me into their big leagues to be their star, and I leave after one three-year contract to go to my husband's network? That's bad faith. I don't get a job _anywhere_."

"Of course you do," he says. "I think you're overthinking this."

"I'm really not," she says, "We're in a perception industry, and you _know_ it." She's partially right.

"I think you're making a _lot_ of assumptions, and you're … complicating things that don't need to be complicated."

"You would be my boss. That is a fact. That's not complicating things. I would work for _your_ network. And it … it pisses me off, Don. It goddamn pisses me off," she finally confesses in a brittle voice.

He's struck, and he sits back down. "I'm sorry," he says unnecessarily.

"For what?" she says thickly. "Don, you're my husband. I love you. I want you to succeed. You're great at your job, and you _deserve_ whatever promotion the Lansings want to give you."

"Yeah, but if it's fucking you over, it's hurting you, so that's hurting me," he says.

"I didn't know what to do, or to say, to you, because you'll try and _fix it_," she says.

"Well, yeah. I'll always try and fix it," he says.

"It's a very lovable and aggravating tendency," she rebukes lightly. "It's just … I work my _ass_ off. And I know that's _why_ I'm getting the ask, I really do. But if I take it … If I take it it negates all that hard work. It doesn't matter what it _is_, it matters what it looks like. I'm the employee, I'm the second hired, I'm the one in front of the camera. I'm the wife. It all looks … not great."

"For the record, everyone who wears a suit at a network knows that it's not because of that. We could … plant stories, in _TMI _or _People_ or whatever, addressing it. A profile of you, an interview about what it's like to manage a complicated job and a home-life balance … It's relatable. If you would want to move on in the future, that would help with that."

She makes a face. "I _hate_ talking about the kids."

"I know. I just … I want you to be happy, Sloan. You haven't been happy for weeks. What if you left Bloomberg and went to another network?"

She pauses, then shakes her head. "I don't know. I hadn't thought of it. My first thought is … I'm not really a fan of that."

"Well, you're going to need to do _something_. Just sitting here and … waiting … is going to leave you _less_ satisfied with your choice in the end. I can _help_, Sloan, if you let me I can _help_ and give you advice, and listen, and _whatever ..._ but we both know that _you_ have to make the call here. That's the only way neither of us is resentful long-term."

"What did Mrs. Lansing say to you?" she asks.

"She said all marriages were power struggles. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yes. We share it, it's complementary, but it's a struggle."

"We don't normally _fight_."

"No, but that's … there's tradeoffs, and they manifest themselves in struggles. I think that's a fair description of marriage. And, for what it's worth — right now _you _have the power in every way, shape, and form. You'd be my boss. With stock options, if you got Reese's job, you'd make _way_ more money. You're also the guy, which, I know you hate this card, but it's easier to do the work-life balance thing when you're not being sniped at by mommy-bloggers on the Internet. So of course you don't want to call it a power struggle, because it makes you feel _bad._"

He's already pretty drained by this fight, so he's not about to start a tangential argument about the power dynamics of a modern marriage. So he simply says, "For what it's worth, I think a network like ACN is the best fit for you. I think it aligns better with your goals of bringing a high level of economic analysis to as many people as possible. I think you're _good_ at international news _and_ politics coverage, and you get to do more of that at ACN. I think you're sick of how much you have to deal with Wall Streeters. I think, like I've said before, that Bloomberg plays too much inside baseball for your taste. I also think, from a producer's standpoint, that they waste your talent. I think you can keep doing good work there, work that you should be proud of, and work that I _am_ proud of, but I think it's becoming obvious that you do more for them than they do for you. Long-term, if you want to stretch yourself and keep evolving, you should move networks. I don't care which one. I don't think you'd like Fox too much, but that's just me. Bloomberg was a great choice three years ago but isn't now, and I think, no matter what your feelings on ACN are, no matter how much you trust or don't trust me to represent your interests in the ACN negotiations, you need to acknowledge at least that much. If you don't want to go to ACN, I think you should start looking at other networks."

She's struck. "Thank you. You really think that's the best choice?" She's serious and curious.

He finally loses it, though he's not sure why. "For whom, Sloan? We haven't settled on that. I think for you, ACN's still the best choice for your career. You probably won't get an offer like that from CNN. You'd get the hours but not the voice. For _me_ — hell no. You at ACN is the best choice on every level. I _love_ working with you. We can bring the dog again. I like having you in the building and getting to watch you tape and sneaking lunch and whatever. For the kids? I'm not sure. Their tuition's getting paid no matter what, at this point. But for our marriage? If it's going to cause rifts like this, over and over again? We'd get sick of it. We'd probably split up. Not right away, but eventually. And — god, Sloan. That's the worst-case scenario. So if that's what you see happening, you feeling trapped and you not being able to get beyond the fact that I _would_ be your boss, if you couldn't trust me to respect you as an anchor and as my _wife_, after six years of marriage and three kids and a dog and a condo, then please. Please, please, _please_ don't take the job. It's selfish, but please. Don't. Not if it's going to tear us apart."

"This is exactly what I was afraid of!" she shouts. "You're acting like it's _my _job that we're fighting about, even though _your _job has the exact same amount to contribute to the situation. But it's _my_ job that you're blaming here!"

"I'm _sorry_ it worked out to offer me this job nine months ahead of when it worked out for ACN to make you an offer!" he yells back. "I'm sorry! I am! I think it's dumb! But for what it's worth, if you had _my_ job and they were giving _me_ your offer, with the money and the time concessions, to build a quality network, I would still take it! I've said that all along! You're being stubborn! It's not perfect, but it's pretty fucking good, Sloan. So what if the timing is off? You really think your show is going to flop? _Really_? After ten years of doing this? After all your awards? After the salary offers you get? You think you're unprofessional and I'm going to have to fire you? I have a _little_ higher opinion of you than that. I don't think this will be a problem, but if you want to _make_ it a problem, I know you can do it. At a fundamental level, if you're talking power dynamics, right now, what you choose and how you react to your choice — that's the rest of our marriage, there. I _know_ the timing, the offer, the fact that I would be your boss eventually, sucks. I am asking you to trust me, if you take the ACN job. But mostly I'm asking that if we don't make the choice together, you at least make the choice that keeps us _married_ because at the end of the day, that's what I fucking care about. I'm at your mercy. _We're_ at your mercy. And that's all the goddamn power you can have in a marriage."

She sighs. "If you can't help me make a decision without getting _angry_ when I'm trying to be honest, I'm going to bed." She exits, spent.

And like that, the anger gets sucked out of him, like a balloon deflating suddenly. He doesn't follow her, because he doesn't know what to say. He overplayed his hand and hadn't fought fair, but she put him in a fucking tough spot — nothing he said would have been right. So he watches a little more TV, dozes off a bit, finally mans up and pads upstairs. The lights are off, her back is to the door.

"I'm sorry, if it sounded like I was belittling your job," he says into the void. "Or your feelings on the offers. I know it sucks. I just wish I could fix it."

"I know you do," she says, the sheets rustling as you turn. "And I would never make a decision that would end up in us getting a divorce. I'm just … stuck. Rock, meet hard place, you know? It's something that I hate. And I have to … figure that out first." He sheds his jeans and shirt and slides into bed, and she studies him. "Right now, I think you have more faith in me and in us than I do. Which is fine. It's not what I'm used to, but it's fine. … I do trust you, you know."

"We'll figure it out," he promises, kissing her lightly, and there's nothing more to say. The words feel empty. It's not a tension that can be resolved with a happy apology. They lapse into a not-quite-comfortable silence, both pretending to be asleep. He thinks she drifts off first, but as he slips out of consciousness, he's not quite sure.

* * *

Soo... thoughts, if you made it this far? Would love to hear!


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